No Man Is an Island
by dumpling47
Summary: "People didn't touch Sherlock Holmes; it just wasn't done." Early stages of Johnlock, rated M for later chapters.
1. An Island Unto Himself

"God, you're amazing."

John knew that it wouldn't be long before his compliments went to Sherlock's head, but he couldn't help himself. Sherlock was brilliant, Sherlock was beautiful. Sherlock was his everything.

Especially now. They'd been having a night in, cuddling and watching telly, and things had only gotten steamier from there. By now, _Top Gear_ was long forgotten, as was the Thai food on the table. John was already down to nothing but his red pants, Sherlock wearing even less than that. And, as usual, John really had no choice but to admire the man before him.

It was the middle of December, and (to John's great surprise) Sherlock had actually put on a bit of winter weight like anyone else. It was barely noticeable, but it looked - and felt - really healthy, especially when John had the opportunity to caress his upper thighs.

"Mmm ..." John moaned, working a hand up one of the legs in question and cupping a buttock, "You feel _so_ good."

Sherlock, looking almost cherubic with his parted lips and unkempt curls, flushed a little as he sank into the touch. He was really enjoying this, John realized - and why shouldn't he? All the same, it amazed John that he could make Sherlock feel this way.

John's hands moved tantalizingly along Sherlock's middle, sending him sinking back into the sofa and bucking a little. He couldn't wait until he finally reached that slender neck, that glorious hair ...

"I wish I could be around to make you feel this way all the time," John admitted. "You deserve this. No - hell, you deserve so much more."

John's mouth met Sherlock's in a warm kiss - slow, but full of fire. He cupped the back of Sherlock's head, hardly believing that he could be so lucky -

- but of course he'd thought so too soon. Sherlock suddenly froze, pupils dilated and unfocused. His brows furrowed.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "You okay?"

"I - erm -" Sherlock brushed John aside gently, stumbling out of the room.

John was taken aback. For the first time in, well, probably ever, Sherlock Holmes had looked utterly confused. John got up off the sofa and followed his friend out of the sitting-room and up the stairs.

"What's wrong, love?" John asked, pausing outside Sherlock's room. They hadn't started sharing a bedroom yet, but John knew they would soon ... unless he'd just done something horribly wrong, that is.

"Sherlock? Did I go too far?"

The door opened and Sherlock appeared, pyjama-clad and still looking a bit off, though not as bad as before. He met John's eyes and smiled weakly.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"What?" Sherlock never apologized for anything; what was going on?

"I'm not used to that sort of thing."

"Oh - uh, being intimate?" John wondered if he was treading on a minefield here.

Sherlock shook his head. "Being touched."

The bluntness of the statement surprised John, but when Sherlock's words finally sank in, he found himself in even more shock than before. He realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it quickly.

"That's not right," Sherlock said as an afterthought, "What I meant was - I'm not used to being touched and having the other person like it."

"Let's talk. Okay?" John sat down on Sherlock's bed, and the detective followed suit.

"I don't see what there is to talk about," Sherlock murmured.

"I just want you to be comfortable with whatever we're doing," John said. "If any of it becomes too much, you have to tell me, alright?"

"I was enjoying myself ... immensely," Sherlock admitted. "But now I don't know if I could be happy without your touch. Now that I know what it's like."

"You're not just talking intimately, are you? You mean ... nobody touches you, ever? Not even a pat on the back, a hug?"

John regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. Had he ever seen anyone pat Sherlock on the back, or give him a hug, for that matter? People didn't touch Sherlock Holmes; it just wasn't done. He was an island unto himself, and no one thought otherwise of it. Besides, wasn't he one of those people who wanted their personal space?

Now that he was on that train of thought, John couldn't help but wonder about Sherlock's early years. Sherlock had mentioned his childhood briefly several times; from the sound of it, his parents had been away often and most of his nannies had found him insufferable. And then there was Mycroft, whose twisted sense of brotherly concern probably had more to do with upholding propriety and less to do with actual affection. In conclusion, not much in the way of a caring touch, even as a child who sorely needed it.

"I'm just not used to it," Sherlock repeated, sounding lost in thought. "Sexually or otherwise. I wasn't thinking clearly - I was so overcome -"

"Hey." John took Sherlock's hand in his own. "You know what? It shouldn't be that way. Maybe it was that way before, but not anymore. You have Mrs. Hudson and me to look after you, and there's others - Molly and Greg and everyone else. We're your family. And, well, I'd like to think I'm a bit more than that, actually," he said, attempting a joke, "Being your boyfriend and all. I'm going to do my part to take care of you. Because nobody should have to go through life without being held, or comforted, or whatever it may be. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded, squeezing John's hand. "Thank you, John."

"I don't want to push you too far, so maybe we could just go back to what we were doing earlier? Cuddling, I mean. I'll bet we could catch the rest of _Top Gear_ if we hurry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Ah, yes. Can't afford to miss yet another car show."

"Oh, shaddup, you know you like it. I _did_ say there'd be cuddling."

"Well, that's a plus." Sherlock didn't bother to fight the grin that broke through.

John still felt a bit sad about what they'd just discussed, but he decided not to focus too much on it. All he could think about now was how to go on giving Sherlock all the love and affection he deserved - without overwhelming him, of course. Because until the detective got used to the idea of being touched - of being _loved_ - John would have to walk a thin line. He'd have to be careful.

John knew he had his work cut out for him, helping his brilliant (albeit touch-starved) boyfriend get used to such a thing. He was okay with that, though - he might not have been the most intuitive of blokes, but he had a feeling things were going to turn out just fine.

With another reassuring hand-squeeze, John led his love downstairs to the sitting room, ready to enjoy the rest of their cozy night in.


	2. Controlling the Urge

The rest of the evening passed enjoyably, and, despite everything John had just learned about his friend, he was in rather high spirits. Sherlock didn't often open up to people, and he felt honored that the detective had trusted him enough to do just that, of his own volition. He spent the rest of the evening holding Sherlock close, staring blankly at the television screen, his mood contemplative.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Sherlock's silence.

"Mm ... so tired," he murmured around midnight. "I have a feeling we'll have clients tomorrow, Sherlock - don't you think?"

"I don't make suppositions without facts ..." Sherlock muttered, "But ... yes. I have a good feeling about tomorrow."

"I had a lovely evening," John said, tilting his head up and running his lips along the edges of Sherlock's own. "Thank you." He almost mentioned their previous discussion, but decided it was better not to. He didn't want to dwell on uncomfortable topics; besides, he had already made a vow to himself to give Sherlock what he needed physically. Words wouldn't be necessary - his devotion was as clear as day.

Sherlock hummed a little under his breath, giving way to a contented sigh.

"I love you, John," he said simply.

John inhaled sharply - he hadn't been expecting to hear that. He was having second thoughts about the whole 'words not being necessary' thing. John knew Sherlock loved him, but oh, was it lovely to hear such a thing, especially in that rumbling baritone.

"I love you, too. Sleep well, Sherlock." John stood on his tiptoes and offered up one final peck before heading off to his room.

* * *

The next day made John wonder if the previous night's occurrences had been some sort of dream. Sherlock had been roused early by a client, and he'd accepted a case that seemed to be taking up every ounce of his attention. When John finally mustered up the energy to leave his bedroom and make coffee, he found Sherlock hard at work on an experiment, entirely focused. Not even bothering to say hello.

"Good morning, love," John said, yawning sleepily. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind and massaged his flatmate's tense shoulders.

Sherlock relaxed a little under the touch, but eventually turned around and gave John a rather awkward pat on the hand. It struck John as a sort of dismissal.

"Coffee?" Sherlock said quickly, apparently realizing that John felt shunned.

"Uh - I was just going to make some, but - yeah, sure."

John watched Sherlock bustle around the kitchen. Sure, the man had a tendency to act a bit manic, but he seemed positively on edge today._Oh, well,_ John thought, shrugging inwardly. _Probably just a stressful case._

"Triple homicide," Sherlock said, as if in answer to his thought (and knowing Sherlock, it probably was). "The man's alibi depends entirely on the experiment I'm running. I can't afford to make a mistake."

"Any way I can help?"

"Er, yes, actually. I need you to go to Tesco; we need a few things." Sherlock snatched a list off the sideboard and handed it over.

John groaned. Same old Sherlock. What had happened to the vulnerable, almost-angelic lover of the night before? Sherlock Holmes was back to being all business, and for some reason, it just seemed so ... _odd_.

John glanced at the list. Thirty-four items, most of them dangerous chemicals that he was fairly positive no supermarket carried.

"Now, I may not be a master of deduction," John ventured, "But by the looks of this, you're trying to get me out of the flat."

Sherlock, eyes fixed on his microscope, didn't respond.

"_Sherlock_."

"I'm a bit busy here, John," Sherlock said, his voice cold.

John threw his hands up in frustration. "Fine!" he grumbled. "See you ... in a few days, maybe? Depending on how long this bloody shopping takes me."

"Have fun," Sherlock said, sounding bored.

John relented, but only because he knew Sherlock wasn't always like this - he'd seen proof of that just last night. All the same, he was wondering what had become of him - he was constantly putting up with a man who was really only lovable a small percentage of the time. Sure, that small amount made up for all of Sherlock's stroppiness, but sometimes, well ... sometimes John's patience ran a bit thin. And that was putting it lightly.

With an exasperated roll of his eyes, John made his way out into the cold winter air and off to the store.

* * *

The case, despite its apparent difficulty, was solved in less than a day. The man had been proven innocent, thanks to Sherlock's absolute (and perhaps somewhat obsessive) dedication to The Work. At the end of the day, a thoroughly put-out John Watson stood nearby as Scotland Yard praised Sherlock for his brilliance.

_He didn't even need half the things on the list,_ John bristled.

After awhile, though, he relented.

_Eh, whatever. At least he looks happy._

A pleased Sherlock Holmes was a very good sign, actually - especially when a criminal had just been put to justice. What usually resulted was a sort of adrenaline rush, leading to what John had christened a 'post-case snogging session'.

Just as John was pulling on his coat, ready to go, DI Lestrade approached him, grinning broadly.

"Hey, Greg."

"John, hey! You look a bit tired. Tough case, huh?"

"Not really. Sherlock's being a bit of an arse, though. As usual, I suppose."

"I can't imagine how you put up with him," Lestrade admitted. "I mean, he's great, obviously - it's just, how do you two make it work? The relationship, I mean. He's so dedicated sometimes; it's amazing you get anything in the way of affection out of him."

"I'll say," John muttered. "That's exactly what I'm - er, actually, nevermind. It's more of a private thing."

"It's okay - I had the same problem with the wife, you know? But that's not what I wanted to talk about." Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'm having a Christmas party for some of the Yarders this Saturday, but it's not exclusive or anything - Molly's gonna be there, among others. You and Sherlock are invited, of course. My place, starts at seven."

"That sounds fantastic," John said, genuinely enthused - he hadn't been to a decent social gathering in ages. "We'll be there."

"Good. See you, then." Lestrade made his way back to his colleagues.

"What was that about?" Sherlock asked, materializing directly behind him.

"Christmas party this Saturday, Greg's place. We're going."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose petulantly, but didn't say anything.

John eyed his friend suspiciously. Usually, after a case, Sherlock began showing signs of arousal, i.e. "let's-get-the-hell-out-of-here-John-so-we-can-go- home-and-undress-each-other". No signs now - he just looked bored and irritated.

The cab ride was a silent one. John didn't know what to say, but then again, Sherlock usually did the talking. John wondered what could be the matter - if anything _was_ the matter, that is.

When they finally reached 221B (it seemed to take forever), there was a cheerful fire blazing, and the place seemed impossibly cozy compared to the harsh winter winds outside. John quickly changed into his pyjamas and made his way downstairs to find Sherlock similarly dressed, sitting in his chair, perusing a book about as big as an encyclopedia.

"What are you doing?" John asked, perhaps a bit snappily.

"Educating myself in horticulture," Sherlock said, as though that were something he did every day. "Problem?"

"I - uh -" John licked his lips. "It's just, after a case, we usually -"

"We usually what?"

"Um, I dunno. Snog?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "What?"

"Like I said, I don't know. I just, well - I was looking forward to it, and you've been ignoring me all day, and -"

Sherlock's jaw slackened momentarily. His green eyes lost a bit of their hardness and he looked guiltily at his lap.

"I owe you an apology," the detective said, his frown deep.

"Sherlock?" This was entirely unexpected.

"I was - well ..." Sherlock tossed the book aside and stood up, inches away from John, his voice a sort of nervous purr (something only Sherlock Holmes seemed capable of doing). "I was thinking a lot about last night."

"What about last night?" John asked. So much had happened then; so much territory had been covered, physically as well as emotionally.

"I was thinking how weak and needy I must have appeared to you," Sherlock confessed. "And really, John, that's what I am. A needy child. Now that I know I have your support, and the knowledge that you'll be there to support me, and, well, everything, I feel as though I ought to restrain myself. I don't want to scare you away."

"You could never scare me away, you arse," John said, trying for playfulness and failing miserably. "I don't know if I entirely understand, though -"

"I've craved your touch for the longest time," Sherlock answered. "And after last night, I found my cravings multiplied by a hundredfold. You're not just physically attractive, John; you're warm and caring and supportive and I've come to realize that I want you - _crave_ you - more than anything. But I don't want to be - what is the saying? - a 'ball and chain', or something. I don't want to be like one of those needy girls that seem to be on telly all the time, the ones who weren't loved as children or whatever and won't leave their boyfriends alone." Sherlock let out a small groan. "Sorry. I don't even know what I'm saying."

"No ... it actually makes a lot of sense." And it did. John had been feeling similar doubts. He'd been walking a line for the past twenty-four hours - he wanted Sherlock to warm to his touches, to the intimacy, but he didn't want to scare the detective away. Now, apparently, Sherlock was caught up in a similar balancing act - he felt desperate and starved for John's affections, but he didn't want to scare John away, either.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and held him at arm's length. "Can I ask you something?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Don't you think that if I were to be scared out of here, it would've been a lot earlier? Like, when there were eyeballs in the fridge or when the wall got shot up? Do you honestly think that I'd up and leave because you want _more intimacy?_ In other words: my ridiculously talented, gorgeous, brilliant boyfriend desires me - and thinks that I'll run for the hills because he's convinced he's being overbearing? I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that doesn't make any damn sense. Someone of your intelligence ought to have figured that out earlier."

Sherlock's lips parted; he was positively gaping. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he smiled broadly, looking a bit dazed.

"I'm sorry, John," he said. "For ignoring you today. I was trying so hard to control myself - to control my urges. I was so convinced I was coming on too strong - being too intense. That you wouldn't like it. But you know something? As important as that bloody case was, I couldn't stop thinking about you for a moment. About last night. About how I wanted more of that - of how you made me feel. And I was thinking - maybe I could make you feel that way, too. I want you to feel as good as I felt."

Despite the relief that Sherlock's proclamation brought, John couldn't help but think how completely obtuse his love had been. Of _course_Sherlock made him feel that way - perhaps better, if that were even possible. John told him so.

"Soooo ... how about that snogging session?" Sherlock asked, steering the conversation over to lighter topics.

"Oh, God; I thought you'd never ask."

John was on Sherlock in a second. He wound one of his hands into the blue silk of Sherlock's dressing-gown, the other pressed up against the detective's strong chest. Sherlock's heart was beating a mile a minute, and John absolutely adored the thought (and feel) of that.

Sherlock was so delightfully uninhibited - the polar opposite of how he'd been all afternoon. His cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the blazing fire just behind them, but more likely because of John's firm lips, meshed together so perfectly with his own.

John let out a moan as he pushed Sherlock down onto the sitting-room rug, tearing his lover's pyjamas aside as he kept his mouth pressed firmly to that glorious Cupid's bow. He felt his vision blur in his arousal, but only for a moment. Soon enough he could see clearly again - the pale alabaster of Sherlock's chest, the elegant curve of his neck, the hard, ticklish nipples ...

John bent down and ran his tongue around the parts in question. Sherlock moaned something that sounded like John's name but was slightly less coherent.

God, he loved this. Sherlock was always so put-together, but he could be so easily swayed. He was a melted puddle, completely at John's mercy, and his reactions were all just so damn perfect - sensual and emotive and lascivious in the extreme. John couldn't imagine ever having him any other way.

However, if John allowed himself to think too much, he'd start considering the fact that they'd never actually had sex, or slept together, or anything that normal couples did, really (not that they were by any means a normal couple, but still). It had been nothing but foreplay in the entire month they'd been together, but hey, John wasn't going to think about that. Maybe they'd go a bit farther eventually, maybe they wouldn't, and it was _all fine._ He wanted Sherlock to feel comfortable, and if it took ages to get to that point, it was no skin off John's shoulder. Asking for more than what they had now would be criminal.

In summation, John wasn't thinking - not much, anyway. All he could seem to do in those moments was feel, and his experience was all the better for it.

After awhile, John relented a little and allowed Sherlock to roll him back onto the rug, their positions reversed. Sherlock looked down at the doctor, his curls askew, eyes shining like flames, nostrils practically flaring with arousal.

"I want you - all of you ..." Sherlock breathed.

John wondered if Sherlock entirely knew what he was saying.

"And I will be ready for that - eventually," Sherlock finished.

Hm ... so he did know what he was saying, then. John was glad his judgment wasn't _completely_ clouded.

"I just want to get used to this first," Sherlock said. "For now, this is more than enough."

John nodded from his position on the rug. "I'm glad."

Eventually, Sherlock gave up his (more-or-less) 'topping' position and buried his head in the crook of John's arm. He sighed heavily, falling asleep within moments. John ruffled his lover's curls gently, listening to the slow, heavy breathing, interspersed with the crackling flames - a sort of comforting background noise. He'd seen Sherlock asleep before, but this was entirely different. This time around, he could feel the breaths, could feel one of the long, pale hands curl around John's shirt ...

For the first time, John caught a glimpse of the child Sherlock had once been - loving, trusting, ingenuous.

Before long, however, John was imagining all sorts of sad scenarios: Sherlock, all alone in some big country manor, without even a caretaker around to love him. Desirous not only of touches, but of loving gestures.

Of signs that he mattered, somehow, to someone.

John pushed the thoughts away immediately. He didn't want to 'theorize without all the facts', as he was prone to doing. And yet, watching Sherlock drift off into dreamland, the picture of innocence, tempted John's imagination to run wild.

John placed a hand on Sherlock's bare back as he himself drifted off. This was the first time they'd ever technically slept together, if you could call it that (he decided he could), and he wanted more than anything to live in that moment forever, despite how cliched it might've seemed to the casual observer.

He fell asleep eventually, his dreams filled with Sherlock and stolen kisses and hearths and, well, pretty much every wonderful thing his tired brain could imagine. And that actually ended up being quite a lot.

* * *

_**A/N: So ... I'm continuing this, yay! This fic will mainly focus on Sherlock and John's developing relationship - Sherlock getting used to the closeness he's been so long deprived, etc. (and maybe a few of John's insecurities as well - we'll see ...)**_

_**Curious about that Christmas party? We'll touch on that in the next chapter. Yup, a whole lot's gonna go down in the near future ... **_


	3. The Christmas Party

_**A/N: I've upped the rating, not for any explicit sexual content (not yet, anyway), but because of John Watson's "colorful" vocabulary. With that in mind, carry on.**_

* * *

On the morning of the Christmas party Sherlock woke alone, as usual ... but with a raging hard-on.

How long had it been since that had last happened - years, maybe? Obviously he'd been more than hard while engaging in activities with John, but this was different. He almost never dreamt, but when he did, his imagination rarely produced anything of the sexual nature. Now, well ... he was practically treading through uncharted territory.

Sherlock reached under the duvet and palmed the erection gently, to little avail. Maybe he wasn't going at it hard enough? He didn't know; he'd just about deleted the idea of wanking from his mind palace, just as he had the concept of morning wood. This really was not okay.

"Sherlock?" John called from outside his door. "I'm off to get presents for tonight. I'll be back around noon, yeah?"

"Y-yes," Sherlock responded, struggling to remain calm.

Once John was out of the house, Sherlock skulked down the hall to the toilet and turned on the shower, the erection beginning to grow painful. This was not normal - what had he dreamt about, anyway?

As Sherlock stepped into the warm water, he began to remember: John, straddling his legs, panting heavily as he thrust deep inside him, over and over again ...

Sherlock nearly gasped for breath as he took his cock in hand again. As he rubbed viciously at the tender area he couldn't help but think that touch-starved people often got a bad rap; that they must be wanking fiends or something. And maybe that was true for most of them, that it gave them what they needed, exactly where they needed it, right in that moment. That it gave them a sense of control.

Despite Sherlock's affinity for control, though, he found he really didn't like self-stimulation. When he was younger he might've done it out of loneliness, or repressed sexual desire ... but he just couldn't get much out of it anymore. No matter how good it felt, one hand on his cock and the other on the wall, holding himself steady - it just wasn't the same as letting someone else take control.

He wanted John. He wanted sex with John - no, he wanted to be ready for sex with John, but his mind wasn't cooperating. Just when he thought he was prepared, his body gave him signals, i.e., whoa, there, back up a little. You've gone without this for so long; you can't dive into these things headfirst.

Despite Sherlock's aversion to masturbation, however, he found that it would have to do, at least for now. He wasn't sure how long he was in the shower, but he knew it had to have been quite a while. All that buildup, however, didn't prepare him for the orgasm that ripped through him, causing him to stagger and nearly knock down all the shampoo bottles. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, glad that his misery (or was it his pleasure?) was over.

All the same, though, it surely didn't compare to what John could give him.

John absolutely loved this. Sure, they'd been appearing at crime scenes together for years and wrestling around on the hearthrug like nobody's business, but this - the idea that now everyone could see them, hand in hand, completely enamored of each other, felt too good to be true. It wasn't that John considered what they were doing a rite of passage or anything, but it was nice to know that Sherlock had no qualms about making their relationship public.

So John thought as he and Sherlock showed up at Lestrade's flat together. There were tons of people there - more than John had been expecting - and almost all of them began oohing and aahing when the doctor and detective appeared. Donovan and Anderson stood in the corner, whispering bitterly, but that knowledge only registered in John's mind for a second. They had a party to enjoy, after all, and he didn't have time for either of them.

"I'll be honest, I didn't know if either of you two would show up!" Lestrade said cheerfully as the boys removed their coats. "Well, I meant you, Sherlock - I know you're not the partying sort -"

Sherlock made some sort of brusque remark, but John didn't catch it, because he'd started thinking along the lines of: Sherlock hates social gatherings. Sherlock won't eat, won't have a drink, won't partake in any party games ... or anything, really. What was I thinking, dragging him along to this?

Sherlock was proving him wrong, however; he seemed more determined than ever to be sociable. He was smiling an awful lot, and not cynically. He was sampling the atrocious-looking fruitcake in the middle of the table (and wasn't saying anything bad about it!). The thing that surprised John the most, though, was when he complimented Molly Hooper on her dress ... and didn't seem to be manipulating her in the process.

"It's a good color on you," Sherlock (the newly-appointed Fashion Critic) was saying. "And such an intricate pattern. You made it yourself, I presume?"

"Y-yes, I did," Molly said, looking a little nervous but more pleased than anything. John knew for a fact that Molly still fancied Sherlock - though she'd been more than accepting of his and John's newfound love. "It took me ages to sew, but I'm actually really happy with how it turned out ..."

Sherlock was nodding eagerly, and seemed for all things genuinely interested. A few moments later, when he approached John by the drinks table, the doctor voiced his observation:

"You're being kind this evening."

"Hm?"

"It's unnerving."

"It's not fake. Even I can appreciate the amount of dedication Molly must have-"

John shrugged. "It's okay; I'm just surprised. I thought for sure you'd be sulking in the corner or something."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, John, you see - I've actually had a sort of revelation."

"And what was that?"

"That I'm very happy. And it's surprisingly hard to be mean to people while in such a state; I've been trying to think up biting remarks all evening but my muse is positively failing me."

John burst out laughing - his love actually sounded surprised by such an idea! "Why somebody would want to be mean to another person in the first place is really the question."

Sherlock turned to face John, eyes a bit downcast. "Because they're not happy, I suppose."

John knew in his heart there'd always be a part of Sherlock that was a touch sarcastic, a touch rude - personality traits that made him who he was, really. But there had been times in the past when Sherlock had been genuinely mean - cruel, even. He realized for the first time that Sherlock had not been intentionally cruel in ages.

Sherlock was growing, changing, developing.

Sherlock was finally happy, and according to him, John had a lot to do with it. It was almost too good to be true.

"C'mere, you," John beckoned, throwing his arms dramatically around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him in for a kiss. Several nearby Yarders started up the chorus of oohs again, but John could hardly hear anything for the pounding in his ears. All he could feel now were those ridiculously plush lips on his own, those firm hands on his waist ...

The moment was over before it had really begun. Lestrade had brought out a karaoke machine, and a terrible rendition of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" had begun between two inspectors. John felt himself visibly cringe, and watched as Sherlock's face mirrored his own.

"I might actually need a drink to withstand this discord," he joked.

"Did someone say drinks?" An entirely too-perky Sergeant Donovan appeared in front of them, holding a tray of beverages - mostly punch. "What'll it be, Freak - chocolate milk or apple juice?"

"Very amusing, Sally," Sherlock said, his voice bland. "It's a wonder you became a detective, when in another life you might've made an impressive stand-up comedian."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "I just can't picture you pissed, that's all." She handed John a glass of punch, and another to Sherlock. "It'll do you good to accept it, Freak. A truce - if only because it's Christmas."

"As good an excuse as any," Sherlock muttered, taking a small sip.

John drained his glass and, declaring the punch to be "bloody fantastic", snatched another cup off Sally's tray and drained it as well. Sherlock eyed his lover warily. He wasn't stupid - he'd read enough about parties and social gatherings, anyway - but he was fairly certain the punch was spiked (wasn't it always spiked?). Usually John would be more concerned about such a thing, seeing as his sister had a drinking problem, but Sherlock had to give him a break - the whiff of alcohol had barely been detectable, and sometimes John was far too unassuming. Besides, was it really that big of a deal?

A few others were a bit drunk, too, but within the hour John ended up being the worst of all. Being small, the alcohol had had a great effect upon his system at a quick rate, and now he was giggling and rambling like a madman while Sherlock stood by, not completely sure what to do. He noticed Donovan and Anderson looming in their corner, looking half-amused and, oddly enough, half-upset.

Ah, Sherlock thought, suddenly realizing. I see.

"You imbeciles," he said as he rounded upon the detectives, all pretense of civility forgotten. "Obviously you intended the drinks for me, but John just wouldn't stop -"

"'Course, Freak," Anderson interrupted with a snort. He looked a bit ruffled, as though he'd had a few himself. "But this is pretty funny, too."

Sherlock shot the man a look that could've pierced steel. "Ah, yes, absolutely hilarious, especially when -"

His sentence was interrupted again by a blatant silence that filled the room, save for one thing: John's voice, a sort of high-pitched wailing from the sofa, while Molly sat nearby, rubbing one of his shoulders awkwardly.

"I just don't know what to do," he moaned. "I'm a horrible boyfriend. I'm not ready for this. Oh, bugger. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. Apparently John swore like a sailor while blotto?

"What is it, John?" Molly asked tentatively, as though the whole room weren't listening.

"No one holds him, ever, 'cept me, and Jesus fuck, I think that if we ever have sex I'll be his first ... and I'm not ready for that because he won't like it and I'll scare him off and I can't even imagine sticking my prick in his tight little arse ..."

By that point, everyone's jaws were on the floor, Sherlock's included. It took him a moment to react.

"Uh, I think we'd best be going," he said, a hard edge to his voice as he approached the sofa. "John, come on, now -"

John looked up at him, his eyes glazing over with ... tears? No. No no nonononoNO. This was too weird. Sherlock fought down several urges - one to sock both Donovan and Anderson right then and there, one to ask John what he was going on about, and yet another to start panicking himself. The party had started so well; what the hell had happened?

"It's all on me, you know?" John continued. "I love him - God knows I fucking worship the ground he walks on - but I'm not worth shit as his boyfriend and now I gotta play nursemaid to him, too? It's too damn much, even for Three Continents Watson."

So the truth was rearing its ugly head, now was it? Surely these weren't just words spilling forth from John's mouth - they more or less had meaning; they were all the things he hadn't been telling Sherlock until now.

In that moment, Sherlock abhorred himself. Why hadn't he picked up on this sooner - that John himself felt uncomfortable, felt insecure? As much as he might've wanted to be everything to Sherlock: a lover, a parent, a sibling (anything, really, as long as the detective got some affection) - he just didn't consider himself qualified for all of it. Apparently these thoughts had been bothering him for ages, and he hadn't trusted his love enough to tell him so.

While all these things raced through Sherlock's mind, the other guests began whispering nervously, looking a good deal confused and a great deal more afraid.

Lestrade, thankfully, came to the rescue. "Sherlock, do you need me to call you two a cab?" he asked, his voice low and soothing.

"Yes - thank you," Sherlock said, hearing his voice break and hating himself even more for it. He was extremely embarrassed, but knew he had to save face somehow. John was prattling on, Molly was rubbing his hair, and everyone else was staring at either the doctor or Sherlock himself.

"Sherlock?"

He turned, meeting eyes with Sergeant Donovan, who truly did look apologetic. All the same, he shot her the most withering of looks. It hadn't escaped his notice that she'd called him by his actual name, rather than some sort of rude moniker. For some (very contradictory) reason, that irked him more than anything.

"Do me a favor, Sally, and get out of my sight," he said, his voice soft and menacing. "And take Anderson with you, while you're at it."

Donovan swallowed nervously and backed away. Sherlock had no idea if she ended up obeying him; his attention was all on John now.

"Here, let me help," Molly said as they lifted him together. The guests were attempting to start up their old conversations again, if only out of politeness.

"Cab's waiting," Lestrade said as Molly helped John into his coat.

Sherlock, tying his scarf about his neck, felt the dam break. The experience had been decidedly traumatic, after all, and once he reached 221B there'd be a hell of a lot to discuss. Responding to Lestrade should've been the easy part, but he was finding it extremely hard to find the right words.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, sucking in a cheek. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"It's okay," Lestrade said good-naturedly. Always the impeccable host.

"No, it's really not," Sherlock said, cheeks flushing. "John's sister's an alcoholic and he shouldn't have been near the punch in the first place." He decided not to mention Donovan's involvement, not due to feeling merciful, but because he didn't know if he had the energy to even bother.

"I hope things work out between you two," the DI said solemnly. "It sounds as though John's had a lot on his mind."

"Yes ..." was all Sherlock could say.

Upon returning to Baker Street, Sherlock painstakingly dragged John upstairs, removed his coat and shoes, and got him comfortable in bed. John was still going on about something, but his words had grown more incoherent than ever. He wasn't shouting anymore, which was, at least, a step in the right direction.

"Sh'lock ..." John murmured into his pillow.

"Yes ... I'm right here," Sherlock said, watching numbly as his long fingers caressed John's cheek. "You're going to have a massive hangover come morning ..."

That'll be the easiest thing to deal with, he thought to himself. John hasn't been honest with me and I might very well never have known that unless - well, no. I'm not happy with Donovan in the slightest, but ... this is probably for the better. This will help our relationship, if John can learn to be truthful with me.

"We have a lot to discuss tomorrow," Sherlock said simply, pulling the duvet over John's frame and turning out the light.


	4. Pillow Talk

John couldn't remember the last hangover he'd had (he'd been avoiding them like the plague since Harry had started drinking), but he knew for a fact he'd never had one like this.

Because _holy_ _shit_, was it bad. Drums, hammers, pins and needles - all banging and poking and prodding in his head. He felt as though he were going to be sick, but couldn't seem to get up and do anything about it.

Suddenly, though, a great wave of nausea overcame him, and he bolted right out of bed and to the loo, emptying the contents of his stomach with utter abandon. Over and over and over again.

He groaned loudly. What the hell had happened last night? He couldn't seem to remember much.

"John."

The doctor looked up wearily and caught sight of Sherlock, standing in the doorway. Everything about his appearance screamed "exhausted", from the bags under his eyes to the messier-than-usual curls to the faded dressing-gown, wrapped tightly about his thin frame. John didn't understand how he already looked like he'd lost weight, but he did - he appeared even bonier and more angular than before. _So much for that winter weight, then,_ he thought sardonically.

"What time is it?" John asked, feeling a bit delirious.

"Half-past noon," Sherlock murmured. "Here - get in the bath and we'll put the shower on you. I read somewhere that helps."

John chuckled to himself, which only seemed to make the pain worse. Sherlock didn't laugh with him, though - not that John had been expecting him to, but still.

John undressed and got in the bath, leaning back as Sherlock took the hand shower from its socket. He turned it on and, crouching beside the tub, ran the water gently through John's hair and face, somehow managing not to get his eyes in the process.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked soothingly.

"Mm ... much better," John breathed, relishing the moment when Sherlock placed a hand on the back of his head, holding him steady.

As John sat there, soaking up Sherlock's mother-henning like a sponge, he found his head beginning to clear ... though not in the way he'd been hoping. He'd wanted some alleviation from the pain, and nothing else.

Of course, feeling better meant seeing things clearly - namely, what had transpired the night before.

John could still only remember in vague snippets - being loud and boisterous, nearly falling asleep on Molly's shoulder, Sherlock's humiliation ...

_Sherlock's humiliation?_

John's mouth went dry. "Sherlock, I-"

"No, John, relax," the detective insisted, his voice going a bit sour. "I think I'm rather getting used to the idea of _playing nursemaid_."

A shiver shot down John's spine. Those words triggered the memories. Sherlock was mocking him, and with good reason ...

Snippets of memory turned into entire scenes. John remembered his inebriated confessions - how he didn't feel ready for being Sherlock's everything - but it didn't end there! John had said some extremely private things without thinking, about Sherlock's sexual experience, his need for touch ...

_Oh, fuck. Jesus fucking fuck._

"S-Sherlock?" John gasped.

Sherlock, deducing that John had started to remember, dropped what remained of the comforting facade and glowered at the man before him.

"What I don't understand, John, is how you can go around shooting cabbies and risking your life and being so physical in your affections but you can't just talk to me honestly." Each word dripped with venom.

John didn't know what to say. He had absolutely no excuse for his behavior but he knew no apology would ever be good enough. The best he could think to do was to actually _be_ honest, but by this point, would Sherlock even listen?

He looked back at his (former?) love. Sherlock's face had grown uncharacteristically blotchy and his jaw was hard. If he hadn't been, well,_Sherlock_, John would say he looked on the verge of tears.

"Hey." John reached out a hand, but Sherlock dodged it quickly. "Love, please-"

But Sherlock was gone, out of the room before John could blink. He sat there in the tub, feeling pathetic and vulnerable, with absolutely no idea how things could be fixed.

* * *

No one would look at Sherlock Holmes and peg him for a stress eater - he was lean as a whippet and dealt with all kinds of tough situations on a daily basis. However, cases didn't count for him as 'stress' - they were more fun than anything.

This, however, was definitely not 'fun'.

Sherlock opened the refrigerator and pulled out some ... chicken wings? Decidedly not his type of food, but it would have to do. He bit into one irritably and found it wasn't so bad.

Eventually he made his way over to the sofa and sprawled out on it, as he usually did while in a sulk. Absolutely stuffing his face. God, he was embarrassing even himself.

He'd polished off nearly a half-dozen on his own when John entered the sitting-room, fully dressed and looking jittery. The doctor watched as Sherlock, seemingly oblivious to his entrance, sucked on a bone in an irritatingly suggestive manner. Of course Sherlock would appear more desirable than ever while they were in the middle of a fight.

John knew it was wrong to blame Sherlock, though - for once, the detective had done nothing wrong and John was entirely at fault. He stepped over into his boyfriend's line of vision.

"I want to be honest with you," John said.

Sherlock tossed the bone aside and closed his eyes, ignoring John completely.

"Okay, uh, I don't know if you'll listen, but -" John inhaled and started in (there really was no backing out now). "Sherlock Holmes, I am so ridiculously in love with you. It's all I can do not to hold you and pleasure you and carry out every damn order you give me - all the time. Shooting cabbies and expressing physical desire is so easy for me because they're things you want me to do - things _I_ want to do - and God knows I haven't got a problem with that.

"I, however, am atrociously bad at expressing my feelings, even when I feel very strongly about something. I know we talked earlier about how you didn't want me to feel overwhelmed, and I told you I wouldn't, but I think I spoke too soon. It's not as though you were asking me to be your sibling and your mum and your lover all at once, but for some reason that's how I interpreted it and I think I took on more than I could handle. Believe me, I _want_ to be all those things more than I want anything in the world. But I'm doing a crap job at just being your boyfriend, and I think I have to figure out how to be a better one before I take on any more. I want so badly to be everything you need but I'm so horribly under-qualified to do so.

"I am so, _so_ sorry, Sherlock. I embarrassed myself last night, and I wouldn't be surprised if none of those people ever wanted to see me again. More importantly, though, I embarrassed you. I said some very private things and I wouldn't be surprised if you never wanted anything to do with me, either. And if by some unlikely chance you should ever forgive me, I would never do that again. Ever. So, um ... yeah," John finished awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock was very still for some moments. His eyes eventually opened, though, green and piercing.

"You are remarkably coherent for someone just off a hangover," he said languidly.

"I-" _Oh, fuck it,_ John thought. _It's not as though I was expecting forgiveness._

Sherlock moved into a sitting position, feet propped up on the table.

"I don't want you to be my mum or my sibling; I never did," he said. "If you started taking on all those roles, I think I'd develop an awful Oedipus complex or something. I do, however, think we need to be entirely honest with each other from now on. Always."

_From now on?_ John wondered if (by some crazy miracle) he was about to be forgiven.

"Which is why I printed off these," Sherlock said, padding over to the breakfast-table and procuring two stacks of paper. He handed one to John. "I thought we'd start simple."

John looked down at the stack in bewilderment. The "Get To Know Your Partner!" survey? He'd heard about it before; apparently it was very helpful in relationships, or some such rot. He hadn't thought Sherlock would buy into such a load of crap, though.

"Where'd you find this?" he asked.

"Internet," Sherlock said, the 'obviously' being implied.

"No, I mean-"

"Saw an ad for it on telly," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Last night."

"How late were you up?" John asked, wondering if he were entirely 'with it' yet - he didn't feel so anymore. He had, however, noticed the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, marring that beautiful porcelain skin.

"Most of the night, I suppose. I had to make sure you were alright."

John felt positively nauseous. Despite his apology, he still in no way deserved this man.

"Okay, I'll take the survey," he said, nodding. "If you think it'll help."

Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose it's a start."

* * *

The survey, despite the hype it had received, was absolute rubbish - or so John thought. How were these questions supposed to help anything? Everything seemed abhorrently shallow: _What is your favorite color?_ (Green), _Have you ever had stitches? _(Shoulder wound, obviously I've had stitches!), and then, perhaps the most ridiculous one of all - _Do you think animals have souls?_ (Um, sure ... I guess?) Needless to say, John had absolutely no idea how this was supposed to do much good.

When John finished the survey (all 100 bloody questions!), he rejoined Sherlock in the sitting-room and handed the stack over.

"That was absolute shit," he admitted. "Sorry ... just being honest."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, I know. I didn't actually read the questions until I started. Like I said, though, it's a start."

John sat down at the table and read Sherlock's answers. He couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's scrawly handwriting and his overly-detailed responses (for example: favorite color - _Having a favorite color in general is idiotic ... but I suppose I like blue because it looks decent with my skin. Then there's that pinkish red that John gets in his cheeks when he's flustered. But otherwise, like I said, why should I have a favorite color unless I can associate it with something I enjoy?_

"I do think the concept is good, though," John commented. "Believe me, our relationship could be nothing but physical and I'd be beyond happy, but that's not really how it works, is it? I think it's good to know the person before you get close; it's a wonderful thing, feeling as though you know your lover intimately - their body as well as their mind. Besides," he said. "I want you to feel like you know me - know as much about who I am as possible - and not the things you could easily deduce or what I've told you already."

"I'm ... flattered," Sherlock said, not looking entirely certain.

John cocked an eyebrow. "That goes for you too, Sherlock. Isn't it funny? We've known each other for years, but for all the mysteries we've solved, for all the things I've learned about analysis and deduction, I still can't figure you out sometimes. You're the biggest mystery of them all."

Sherlock snorted, but suddenly realized that John was being serious. "This will help us with physical intimacy, you say?"

"Well, I mean ... I don't think it's right to say you love someone and want to do all sorts of things for them, but feel like you're in the dark about a lot. And when I say 'in the dark', I don't mean that I'm dying to know if you think animals have souls, or whatever. I think the more we learn, the more we'll love each other, even if some things aren't sunshine and rainbows. Because we'll have been open with each other, and that's what counts."

"I see ..." Sherlock said, gazing blankly out the window at the street below. John doubted he could see much; they appeared to be completely snowed in. "It doesn't look as though we'll be going anywhere for a few hours at least. Highly unlikely we'll have clients, either, if the weather continues in this manner ..."

Without further ado, he bolted out of the room. Before John could even ask, Sherlock returned with a massive woolen blanket - one of Mrs. Hudson's many creations. He dimmed the lights in a somewhat theatrical manner.

"Sit down," Sherlock said, pointing to the sofa. John obeyed, watching as Sherlock curled up on his side, his head in John's lap, spreading the blanket out over the both of them (a bit awkwardly, but no matter). "We'll have some pillow talk," he said. "More or less," he added, taking in John's skeptical expression.

John rested a hand on Sherlock's mess of curls. He still felt physically ill with himself for the way he'd behaved last night; and was amazed at how eager Sherlock was to make amends. He didn't deserve such forgiveness, he decided, so the only thing to do was to comply with his lover's crazy schemes until he felt he'd earned condonation.

Even if it meant answering Sherlock's questions, which might possibly get a bit personal.

All the same, though, he felt a thrill of excitement. If he stayed honest, Sherlock would too. Anything he wondered about the enigmatic detective - anything at all - might very well be answered. The thought of it thrilled him, but terrified him a little, too.

"You go first," John suggested. He was feeling generous, after all.

"When did you lose your virginity?" Sherlock asked, as though he'd been wondering for awhile.

Hm, that wasn't so bad - not too terribly personal, anyway. "Er - I was sixteen, and I was curious. Her name was Gabrielle - I don't even remember her last name, can you believe it? She didn't talk to me after, but I didn't care all that much."

"What did she look like?" Sherlock asked, his interest piqued.

"Hey, it's my turn!"

"No, this goes along with-"

"Okay, okay! Taller than me - surprise, surprise. Long brown hair, blue eyes. Freckles. Uh - big chest." John blushed madly.

Sherlock snickered. "_Well_ ... this is certainly more enlightening than that god-awful survey!" He shifted his position a little and wrapped his long fingers around John's upper thigh.

_Oh God,_ John thought. _For someone who says he doesn't understand touch, he sure knows how to play me like an instrument._

"Your turn," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Right, let's see ... what is your, um, sexual orientation?" John didn't know why he was asking, really - but he had to admit he was curious. A lot of people wondered this, anyway, and John himself found he wasn't entirely certain about it. He hoped it wasn't too personal; it would do better to save the big questions for later.

"I've always identified as asexual, but on the rare occasion I do experience attraction, it's always with men," Sherlock admitted. "So ... gay, I suppose."

For some reason this surprised John. He couldn't exactly say why; maybe it was just the fact that Sherlock was being so open with him. Apparently he had no problem telling John things ... as long as he was asked the right questions.

"What about you?" Sherlock said. "Let me guess - straight, with an exception."

"Don't flatter yourself," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Am I right?"

"Yes." John moved his hand up Sherlock's jaw and rubbed small circles along his cheekbone. The man curled up on top of him was mostly angles, but there was a sort of softness to his features that John hadn't noticed until they'd started doing things like this together. It was nice, in a way - like Sherlock's armor came down, and only for him.

Suddenly, John thought of the perfect question - why hadn't he asked this earlier? He suspected he knew the answer; he'd blabbed his suppositions at Greg's party (to Sherlock's embarrassment, but that was beside the point). He thought about the tight little arse in question and couldn't help but wonder ...

"Are you a virgin?" he blurted.

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, looking awfully brooding for a man wrapped in a wooly blanket. Within seconds, though, he found his voice:

"No, and I don't see why it matters so much."

John was stunned - not just because of Sherlock's words, but because of his defensiveness. It obviously _did_ matter; why else would he have been so embarrassed at Lestrade's party? Obviously John had crossed the line then, but really, now, if Sherlock didn't care ...

"I'm just surprised," John said. "Not because you could bed just about anybody - you look like a supermodel, for God's sake - but because, er-"

"Because it's taking me forever to just be close to you and have sex already?" Sherlock responded bluntly.

John sucked his teeth.

"I'll explain," Sherlock said, saving John the agony of speaking again. "I was at University and I was bored. I wanted to know what sex felt like - I think part of me was convinced I'd hate it and I'd swear off it forever. The man was older than me but otherwise nondescript, and we made a point of not trading names - it was purely a business transaction, nothing more. We tried a number of positions but I remember feeling vastly uncomfortable the entire time. It was enjoyable, I suppose, but I didn't like the idea that we were ... using each other." He swallowed, continuing in a sort of monotone: "Opening myself up like that to someone who didn't even care about me. Sure, I liked the sensations I received - but it wasn't enough. There was no care, no love, behind anything that happened. Not that I was expecting there to be, but ..." He trailed off, brows furrowed.

"So why are we waiting?" John wondered aloud, not caring that he was asking another question. Their so-called 'pillow talk' had taken a turn for the serious. "Obviously there's no rush, but I just don't see-"

"Ugh, John, are you really that slow?" Sherlock asked, in a not-entirely rude manner.

"I'm starting to think so."

"Because I love you," Sherlock said. "And when we eventually have intercourse, I want it to _matter_. I may have felt cheated out of physical affections for most of my life, but that doesn't mean I'll just let any man put his hands on me - not anymore, now that I know what it is to love someone. And that's why I regretted that night at Uni, because at the time I thought that's what I was supposed to do. I have you now, John, and I see that I was mistaken." He smiled cynically. "Listen to me; I've gone all sentimental. It's terrifying."

"No, it's fine. It's good," John said, shocked (yet very pleased) by what he'd heard.

"You know something?" Sherlock said, his voice quiet.

"Huh?"

"I was almost certain that after last night you'd want nothing to do with me. I really thought I'd scared you off, and that scared me, too. I was so sure we had something - something I'd never once experienced before - but then all that rubbish happened and it was sort of a kick in the face."

"I'm sorry," John said, reliving the previous evening for the umpteenth time, tears clouding his eyes. "I'm a complete wanker and I really don't deserve you, you know that?"

Sherlock's green eyes met John's own; they were surprisingly soft. "Maybe not," he teased. "But look - I just want to make sure we're doing the right thing. I'm positive I want this, but I want everything in that moment to be perfect. I know it sounds like I'm idealizing things, creating some sort of impossible scenario, but I don't think I am. I know what it's like to have a sexual experience gone wrong - I think you do, too - and I want more than anything for this to work out. So, erm, you're okay with that? Waiting a little while?"

John nodded. "Baby steps."

"What?"

John shook his head. Once again, his guilt about the night before was eating at him - this time more than ever. He did his best to explain that:

"I want this to work because I fucked up badly last night, and I need to make up for what I did, if anything. Our first time together is going to be perfect, whenever we decide that should be. But for now, one step at a time."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"When you're feeling something, I need you to tell me. I'm not so good with emotions myself, but I think we work things out pretty well together. And despite my propensity for brilliant deductions," he said, smiling cheekily, "I'm not actually psychic. Especially not in matters of the heart."

"Funny you should say that, seeing as you just about had a love affair with that chicken," John joked, gesturing at the pile of bones on the table.

"Ah, yes - my mistress of choice, perfect for all situations - from when I'm feeling sulky to when you're especially cross."

"You great sod," John laughed, shoving Sherlock off his lap. The detective landed dramatically on the floor, shaking with his own mirth. "I'm glad we had this talk. I've gotta call Lestrade & Co. - the guilt's eating me away, embarrassing the rest of them like that - so you keep yourself occupied, alright? As far as I see it, as long as you're eating, you can have as much fun with those wings as you want."

John left the room, extremely relieved that the clouds had parted - least of all in the literal sense. He'd never have guessed, considering how the morning had started, that he'd be making amends, swapping secrets, and joking around with Sherlock by the day's end. And now the world's only consulting detective was lying prostrate on the floor, positively choking with laughter.

John knew stranger things had happened, but in that moment, the turn of events felt about as miraculous as anything. He'd have been a fool not to be grateful for that.

* * *

_**A/N: Yes, that was schmoopy, but I think that if I prolonged the angst it would've bogged the story down. And despite everything, Sherlock really wants to forgive John because they are ridiculously enamored of each other. And now they know each other so well (well, they know a bit about each other's sex lives, but that's a start, isn't it? I hope so ...)**_

_**THE SEXYTIMES ARE COMING UP, I PROMISE. Stick with me, people! The boys had to work through a lot (and they will probably have to keep doing that for a long while), but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. And by 'light' I mean smut. Loads and loads of smut.**_

_**Thanks for reading! :D**_


	5. A Damn Good Shag

Sherlock knew it was a stupid idea, but with John off visiting Harry, he didn't really have much choice.

It was the second week of January, and with each passing hour that John was gone, his horniness was increasing. And so he did what any sensible person would do: he consulted the Internet.

It was a stupid idea because the Internet was exactly where those surveys had come from, but hey, it wasn't as though all the relationship information on the 'Net was rubbish, right? He hoped not; he hated being ignorant about these things but in the end he didn't really have much choice.

Every message board said the same thing: when your partner was gone, and you were feeling lonely, you had to, er, go solo for awhile. Wank, masturbate, give yourself a feel ... whatever it took.

Sherlock sighed with frustration. He'd already tried that, to no avail, and didn't care to go back. How could anything compare to having your partner, right then and there? Especially when your partner was a certain John Watson.

He found someone on one of the sites with the same question. Another user had answered, saying that you 'had to reach deep inside your imagination' and 'pretend that that person was doing it for you, rather than you for yourself.'

That sounded simple enough, pretending his hands were John's. Even if John's were small and his were long.

Besides, Sherlock knew this was something that he ought to be able to do. He'd been telling John that he wanted to feel entirely comfortable with someone taking control of his body, but how could he feel that way unless he experimented on himself, got a taste of who he was, of what he liked?

That's what it would be: an experiment, and nothing more.

This would be different, but not entirely. He was horny, but without a hard-on, and he was about to give himself one. Sherlock braced himself for the challenge.

_John's hands,_ he thought to himself as he massaged his inner thighs, preparing himself for what was about to come. _Think of John, and only of John._

It took an extraordinary stretch of the imagination, but eventually it started to work. He felt himself grow very hard, stretched out there on his bed, alone but no longer lonely.

He reached clumsily at his erection and palmed it in an increasingly confident manner (the way he imagined John would do it; he had to stay in character, after all). He knew that he could prolong the pleasure; drag it out so that he wouldn't have to deal with those hours of aching loneliness until John returned, but his body was telling him that he wanted it all, right then and there.

After a few minutes of massaging the head and shaft, Sherlock felt as though he were beginning to leak (_finally_, he thought to himself). At last he moved on to his balls, stroking as firmly and sensuously as possible.

The buildup was starting to physically hurt - but not in an entirely bad way, Sherlock decided. He just needed to _focus_ - focus on John doing this - slow, steady strokes, tantalizingly close to his anus ...

Sherlock (not entirely narcissistically, he told himself) fought to get even further into character and pictured himself the way John might. On a typical day Sherlock saw himself as gangly and awkward, with a disproportionately large mouth and an even larger arse. Point being, on a typical day Sherlock wasn't overly fond of himself.

But John loved him more than anything, so what did John see? Sherlock thought hard: John saw a marble statue of a man who, despite appearances, could be quite warm and inviting. John saw a sensual mouth, an elegant neck, a slim waist and luscious thighs. And what was, apparently, an arse to die for.

In that moment, Sherlock loved himself. Absolutely fucking _adored_ his every physical feature. John saw something near perfection, and Sherlock was in John's head. It wasn't that he was wanking to himself, exactly - but when he started thinking this way, his - or, rather, John's - touches grew more insistent, as though what was happening was that much more real. It still in no way measured up to the real thing (or so Sherlock imagined), but by God, it felt so damn _good_.

Sherlock bucked as he came, collapsing back onto the bed and breathing raggedly. He didn't care that the bedsheets were a mess - hell, that _he_ was a mess.

All that mattered now was that he finally understood.

* * *

"You never do washing," John mentioned upon his return. He'd caught Sherlock loading the sheets into the dryer, and the detective was doing his best to appear nonchalant. It was hard, not only because he felt excited, but because he felt exhausted, too. His "morning session" had taken a great deal out of him.

"Wet the bed or something?" John joked, standing on his tiptoes and pecking Sherlock's cheek.

"Masturbating," Sherlock blurted. Upon realizing what he'd said, he clamped his mouth shut.

"Hey, it's okay," John said, grinning. "Everyone does it."

"I was, er, trying to figure out what all the hype was about, and I, uh ... think I succeeded, finally." Sherlock didn't know why he couldn't seem to stop babbling.

"Was it your first time?" John asked, casually interested.

"... no. I've tried on several occasions, but I just didn't understand why it was such a big deal."

"Did you think about someone special?"

Sherlock sucked in his cheeks. "Perhaps."

John decided to let the matter rest at that. This was good - hell, this was more than good. Sherlock becoming comfortable with himself meant they were one step closer to becoming comfortable with each other.

_Baby steps,_ he thought to himself. Those words had become his mantra of late.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

John was beyond baffled. Sherlock was dragging John's armoire down the hallway. Like a lot of things Sherlock chose to do, John didn't see the point - not right away, that is.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked up, a sheen of sweat on his pale brow.

"I am moving your things into my room," he said simply.

"I - _what?_"

"I thought you'd be more comfortable if you had all your furniture in there - not your bed, obviously, but everything else - we could use your duvet if you like; I know you like familiar things -"

"Sherlock Holmes, what the bloody hell are you going on about?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile. "I'm tired of 'skirting around the edges' as it were," he said. "If we're going to be this involved with each other, we really ought to have cut out all the rubbish ages ago and started sleeping together, don't you think? My room's bigger, and I have the double bed, so I thought we could make your old room a writing-nook of sorts ... for you, obviously." He looked positively thrilled by the idea.

"You want to _start sleeping together?_" John was grinning just as goofily.

"Yes! I don't see why we waited so long, to be honest."

John laughed. Sherlock had evidently been through quite a bout of self-discovery, and it was about time. In the blink of an eye, John dropped the _baby steps_ nonsense and replaced it with_ holy shit,_ _we're actually gonna have sex._

Sherlock deduced John's thoughts instantly. "Yes, John, for God's sake ... we are going to have intercourse. Tonight."

"Jesus," John breathed.

It didn't take any more convincing to get John to help move the rest of the furniture.

* * *

"I hope for your sake you've been tested," Sherlock said from the kitchen. They'd just finished moving John's stuff, and were trying their best to find something to eat. Unsurprisingly, John found more appendages than actual edible items, but he could hardly allow himself to be bothered - not now, at least. Not while he was in such a good mood.

"Well, yeah ... I got tested after my last girlfriend, six months ago. She wasn't being entirely safe and I wanted to be positive I hadn't contracted anything. And yourself?"

"Just this morning," Sherlock said, smirking.

_Cheeky bastard,_ John thought admirably. _He was so sure I'd say yes._

Before John could think up a witty response, Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John's waist from behind. His elegant fingers drew small circles on the insides of John's wrists, and he moved in closer, his breathing slow and sensual.

The noise that escaped John's throat was not entirely human. He loved this - loved when Sherlock initiated. Loved when Sherlock was aroused, period.

"Everything is all set upstairs," he said, his voice low and resonant.

John didn't have to be told twice. He felt as giddy as a schoolgirl as he stumbled up to Sherlock's (or rather, _their_) bedroom, the detective right on his heels. John shoved the door open, looking about wildly.

"W-where?" he stammered, swaying a little on his feet.

Sherlock took John's arm and led him to the bedside table, where the lube and condoms sat out, ready to go. John got himself ready with trembling fingers, aware that he was rock-hard and Sherlock, already set, was staring.

"Well, Jesus," John muttered, once he was ready.

"Listen to yourself," Sherlock purred, moving in closer and pressing John gently back into the bed. "You want this badly, don't you." It wasn't a question.

John sank back into the sheets and met Sherlock's eyes - pupils so dilated that the irises appeared completely black. Face already flushed with excitement. Lips full as ever, but now wet.

This was good. This was _very_ good.

Within an instant, Sherlock's lips were on John's, readjusting themselves perfectly to every movement. It occurred to John, however, that Sherlock was still much too far away from him. He took hold of a long, pale arm and tugged urgently.

Sherlock complied, leaning in closer so that his shoulders arched enticingly. _Still not close enough, though,_ John thought, though not quite so coherently as that. Lips still locked, John gave one final tug and pulled Sherlock right up against his chest.

John felt his body spasm excitedly as Sherlock's erection touched his own. He was perhaps even harder than John was, if such a thing were possible.

Sherlock's mouth moved down to the neck, finding ample space in the crook of John's collarbone and sucking lightly. Somehow in this process he'd managed to align their hips perfectly, and was rocking back and forth, the amount of connection varying.

_Fucking tease,_ John thought, as disjointedly as ever.

John tried desperately to meet Sherlock's eyes - a sort of light on the shoreline, as it were - but he couldn't. Sherlock's eyes were closed - had they been all this time? No, he'd seen them earlier. But now ... what was going on?

"Fuck - Sherlock, look at me," John begged.

But he didn't. In one deft movement, he managed to roll John over, onto his stomach. It took John a moment to realize what was about to happen - and he had to admit he was scared. Sherlock, at least, probably had some experience topping, however minimal. Never in all his life had Three Continents Watson been on the receiving end - nor had he been expecting to be tonight.

John moaned, mostly aroused and just a little pained, as Sherlock's fingers tested the waters, working to stretch out the anal cavity. John's head was swimming; only after about twenty seconds of this madness did he beg Sherlock to stop.

"I have to, John," Sherlock insisted, his speech a bit garbled in his own delirium. "Need to - make room."

It was only then that John realized that, until that very moment, Sherlock hadn't just been avoiding eye contact. He hadn't been speaking, either. But _why?_

The pain only lasted a few more seconds. John sighed with relief - until Sherlock gripped the sides of his hips. Before John's brain could form a coherent thought (not that it had been all evening), Sherlock was inside him, the thrusts equal parts pain and pleasure. John's head was still swimming; he had been expecting something good, but fuck, not _this_ good.

John's eyes welled with tears. He hurt like hell, but he loved the sensations he was feeling, the way his body bucked and responded to every one of Sherlock's movements ...

"Unnngh," John moaned. "S-Sherlock ..."

No response, but the thrusts grew even faster, more urgent, continuing on this way for a long while. John, long ago wet with precome, knew that he couldn't hold out much longer. He felt Sherlock's hot breath on his back - proof that he was still there (thank God).

"_Sherlock_," John pleaded, arms shaking, erection harder than ever, "I'm going to come-"

And then - from behind him - something entirely unexpected.

"_John_ ..."

Well, fuck, he hadn't been expecting that! A single word, delivered so deeply, so sensuously. John imagined Sherlock as best he could - curls wilder than ever, face red and hot, head thrown back in sheer ecstasy. So uninhibited, so ridiculously perfect -

These thoughts flashed through John's mind in less than a second. That one word and that mental image, combined with one final thrust, sent John over the edge. He tried biting his lip as he came but the moan ripped through him, loud and agonizing. And the knowledge that if there hadn't been condoms, Sherlock might very well have come inside him too ...

John's erection quickly subsided, and he savored the newfound peace. He felt great - hell, he felt on top of the fucking world. He was content just to lie there, catching his breath.

It had been perfect, and all John could think was that that had only been the first time. There was so much more in store for the both of them ...

"Sherlock?" John asked tiredly, wiggling his fingers in hope Sherlock would take his hand.

"Mm?" He was there. Good.

"How do you feel?"

"Really good." Finally, Sherlock came into John's line of vision. He was breathing heavily, each inhalation wracking his thin chest. Hair almost comically out of place. Eyes unfocused. "I'm ... glad we didn't wait any longer."

John nodded vigorously. "Next time, though - look at me, say my name, anything to let me know you're there. To let me know you're enjoying yourself."

Sherlock nodded, meeting John's eyes directly. They weren't as entirely cold and searching as they usually were, but he was certainly coming down from his previous animation.

"Besides," John continued, "I want you to see, right on my face, how you make me feel. What only _you_ can do, Sherlock. And I want to see what I'm doing to you, too."

Sherlock nodded, this time looking - and feeling - pleased. It occurred to him (exactly as it had occurred to John) that this was only the beginning. As cliched as it might've sounded, especially to his own ears, the possibilities were endless.

* * *

_**A/N: The chapter title comes from a clip of Benedict Cumberbatch being as adorkable as ever :3 And Sherlock's silence/lack of eye contact will be explained later, so don't you worry ...**_


	6. Forgiving and Forgetting

Sherlock felt as though he had fucked up in the extreme.

John had been constantly reassuring him ("you were absolutely _perfect_"; "God, you were fantastic"; "I wasn't expecting it to be _that_ good" ...), but Sherlock couldn't help fretting.

Even John had mentioned it: the fact that Sherlock had been so quiet during sex, hardly allowing himself to meet John's eyes ...

He didn't think he owed John an explanation, really, but he felt bad all the same. He'd been in a constant struggle the entire evening not to retreat into his Mind Palace, not to detach himself entirely. Because some twisted part of his brain was trying to convince him that sex with John meant nothing more than sex with that bloke at Uni. It was just something that happened; going through the motions, so on and so forth. And if Sherlock cried anything aloud, met John's eyes and saw the look of absolute pleasure on his face, he'd be in too deep. He'd be even more hopelessly in love with the man before him and the knowledge that he could make someone else feel that way.

And then, of course, was the idea that he didn't deserve any of this. He'd been deprived of nice things for far too long and he felt as though he were being selfish for actually enjoying something for once.

_Stop being ridiculous,_ he told himself. _Everyone, even the most annoying of people, feel similar sensations at some point in their lives. Maybe you don't deserve John (who does?), but you deserve to be happy._

Sherlock made a decision to delete all of the paralyzing self-doubt. He was about to delete all cliched expressions, too (_really, though, 'you deserve to be happy'? Disgustingly sentimental, Holmes; get yourself together!_), but thought better of it. There was something oddly comforting about them, though he'd never admit it to anyone.

* * *

Sex with John was absolutely indescribable. Not even Sherlock's massive intellect could come up with words to accurately describe how he felt as he bent John over just about every piece of furniture in the flat. Frottage and foreplay was all well and good, but most of the time they went for anal, Sherlock topping (of course).

That was another thing: Sherlock liked the control that topping gave him. He knew he wasn't a natural top (sure, he exuded authority a great deal of the time, but didn't always feel that the role suited him in bed), but God only knew how he'd handle having John behind him. It would be far too much; Sherlock would spontaneously combust. As long as John wasn't complaining, Sherlock assumed their current situation was okay.

Relatedly, Sherlock finally had something other than The Work to keep him occupied, to keep him happy. The whole 'my body is transport' rubbish was tossed to the winds - sure, he wasn't eating or sleeping or doing any of those boring things, but sex was, well, _fun_. Sex with someone he loved was even better. It was funny, in a way - Sherlock, the former illicit drugs fiend, now found the idea of narcotics extremely monotonous, especially when compared to the idea of making love. God, no wonder there were so many crimes of passion; it all made so much sense now!

One of the many nice things about such an engagement was that Sherlock still craved John's touches more than ever. It didn't matter how hard they'd gone at it countless times; a comforting touch from John, a bit of snuggling - anything, really - was enough to send Sherlock over the edge again. He'd matured a great deal sexually in the last few months, but deep down he was still the child who craved love and affection and support.

One difference, though, was that he no longer felt like he was being incessant or needy or annoying. He felt entirely comfortable.

It all seemed too good to be true.

* * *

One morning in mid-April, Sherlock and John were helping Lestrade out with a case - and a tough one, at that. They'd both been so focused on solving it that there hadn't been much time for intimacy, but it wasn't so bad. There was a time for work and a time for play, after all.

"One of the witnesses was just passing by on the street - wrong place, wrong time sort of thing," Lestrade was explaining. "A Mrs. Naomi Clayton - I suppose you'd want to speak with her, too?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied.

The boys were ushered into the standard interrogation room where a woman sat waiting - mid-fifties, short, blonde, and a bit on the pudgy side. She looked the motherly type, John decided.

Mrs. Clayton stood up upon their entrance, eyes widening, mouth agape.

"Mrs. Clayton, we-" John began.

"_Sher_-lock!" she gasped, her voice an unexpectedly high-pitched wail. Before the detective could respond, she bustled over and threw her arms around his lanky frame, positively beaming.

Sherlock pried her off gently. John caught his eye: he looked ... _stricken?_

"Naomi," Sherlock said flatly. "You've married, otherwise I would've known sooner-"

"Oh, _Sher_-lock, look how you've grown!" Mrs. Clayton (or, rather, Naomi) chirped. "Such a handsome young man! Of course I've heard about your cases; you've made me so proud! And to think I had a hand in raising you! Oh, it's simply wonderful, _Sher_-lock."

Sherlock looked positively disgusted. "We are here for an interrogation, so if you'd kindly-"

"Oh, and is this your boyfriend?" Naomi said, turning to John and blushing. "I always wondered if you swung that way, if you catch my meaning - but oh, he's certainly dishy, I must say! You have excellent taste."

John was growing increasingly confused. Who was this woman, a family friend? A caretaker? He hadn't a clue, but he could very well understand Sherlock's frustration. She was rather insufferable, and the way she said Sherlock's name was hell on the ears.

"Uh, Mrs. Clayton, if we could just sit down now and -" John started, attempting to steer the conversation towards the case. Sherlock looked positively ill, after all.

"It's really quite a shame I only stayed on for about six months or so," Naomi said, completely oblivious. "You were the most rambunctious seven-year-old I ever encountered! All those awful experiments - I do feel a bit bad for your poor mother; I heard you were even more hellish than ever after I left!" She laughed merrily.

A dark shadow had passed over Sherlock's brow. "That will be enough," he said, turning on his heel and making to exit the room. "I will have Lestrade conduct your interrogation; I'm sure I can trust his opinion well enough. Come, John."

He exited the room in a huff. John didn't even bother to exchange an apologetic look with Naomi (as he usually did whenever Sherlock was a prat); he was too annoyed himself. He followed Sherlock out of the room, right down the stairs and out of New Scotland Yard.

"You could've at least told Greg you were leaving," John said, if only to be fair.

"Just texted him," Sherlock muttered. "He won't care."

"But Sherlock-"

"Not now."

The cab ride back to Baker Street was long and agonizing. Sherlock stormed up the stairs and into the flat, John following in hopes of getting a few words out of him.

"Who was that?" John asked, though he already had a guess.

"Back when I knew her she was Naomi Derringer," Sherlock growled through his teeth. "I'd recognize that cacophonous shriek anywhere. '_Sher_-lock, come here, _Sher_-lock!'" This last part was said in a mocking falsetto, not far off from the woman's actual tone of voice.

"Um, yes, and who was she?" John said.

"Old nanny of mine," Sherlock answered, his voice dripping with venom. "Didn't last long, but then again, none of them did. She was by far the most annoying, though." His hands balled into fists. "And of all things, she has the nerve to pretend that my abilities, my accomplishments, are somehow due in part to how she raised me? How dare she! She did absolutely nothing for me but prove an irritation."

"Are you sure that's not exaggerating it a little?" John asked hopefully.

"Oh, I'm sure. She built herself up like she was such a wonderful person, as though she moulded me into the man I am today. Honestly, though, it's a wonder I remember her - every time my parents were away 'on business', which was often, she was supposed to look after me. I was young and malleable then; I might've - dare I say it - even come to crave her attention after awhile. She was almost as absent as my parents, though occasionally I would be reminded of her presence by that piercing caterwaul. And she's absolutely convinced that she did some sort of fine job!" He laughed a bit maniacally. "I should've just deleted her, moved on ..." His voice broke in an almost imperceptible manner, and John could see that, besides being angry, Sherlock was deeply hurt.

"Sherlock-" John began.

"Let's have sex," Sherlock interrupted.

"Sorry, what?"

"You heard me. I need to get my mind off this; I won't be able to focus on the case if-"

This was too weird. They didn't have sex during cases - not during big ones, anyway.

"If you're sure ..."

"Oh, God, I'm sure," Sherlock answered. Right then and there he began peeling off his clothes. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded, staring at the still fully-clothed man before him.

John undressed as quickly as possible. Even as they both lubed up, he was still having reservations about the idea. Not only had they never had mid-case sex, they'd never had any other kind of sex but that of the happy and/or horny variety. Sherlock was very clearly angry, furious with his former nanny for being so pretentious. He was sad, too - the resulting intercourse would undoubtedly be an emotional experience, and not necessarily of the good kind. John didn't know if he was fully prepared for that.

The ex-soldier remembered having asked Sherlock to look at him, to be as vocal as he wanted. Now, at least, Sherlock was doing that, but John was terrified of what he saw. The younger man's eyes blazed like an inferno and he was positively snarling.

"Sherlock, this really isn't a good idea," John said. He'd give anything to Sherlock right now - anything to stop him from hurting - but he didn't think what they were doing was entirely safe. Sherlock could do damage to either one of them if he wasn't careful.

Sherlock's face slackened a little, the snarl gone. He took John's face in his hands, desperately seeking solace in his partner's gaze. One of his hands tangled in John's military cut, the other wound its way around the firm waist. They kissed, long and hard and a bit sloppily - proof that Sherlock still wasn't in his right mind. It wasn't that the kiss was bad, exactly ... but John was used to Sherlock being careful and precise.

"Lie down on your back," Sherlock growled.

John complied, right there in the middle of the floor. Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile as he took hold of John's legs and pushed them apart, giving him a nice view of a large, swelling cock. John was sweating profusely; they'd never done anything like this before.

Sherlock straddled John's hips, getting a leg up and draping himself over his love, sucking at ticklish nipples while he thrust eagerly, creating friction each time their erections rubbed.

"Oh, yes," John gasped, "Fuck, that's good. Really good, S-Sherlock." He was aware that he was being loud but he didn't care. The more John begged, the harder Sherlock went, and that's all that mattered.

Sherlock ran his tongue from John's right nipple to his collarbone, biting tenderly at the taut skin. John realized with glee that Sherlock was perhaps being noisier than he was - sucking, moaning, inhaling and exhaling as though he couldn't take in any air ... and maybe he couldn't. John barely could himself.

It was a wonder John could recall any of this, because all the while Sherlock was still driving into him - but eventually the movements became so fast, the sensations so chaotic, that John was soon completely unable to focus. His eyes were open, but he wasn't seeing anything - just feeling sensations, feeling their slick bodies, shoved up against each other, desperate, pent-up, begging for release -

"God, Sherlock, let me come ... _please_ -" It hurt so much; John wondered if he were about to start crying.

Sherlock, on the verge of orgasm himself, let out a guttural cry, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, coming just as John did. The result was rather messy but wonderfully liberating.

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock gasped, rolling off John and onto his back. He felt so happy - but dangerously so, as though he might break down weeping any moment.

John, eyes closed as he sucked in breaths, grinned deliriously. Sherlock rarely swore, but when he did it was seductive as hell. John didn't know if he could afford to be turned on again today.

"Feeling better?" John asked.

"Mm, yes," Sherlock murmured, as John admired how posh he could sound, even right after climaxing. "I think so."

"You're sure?" With a supreme effort, John pushed himself into a sitting position. Sherlock lay spread out on the rug, limbs splayed out in all directions, pale chest heaving. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock, apparently, couldn't form words over one syllable in his current state.

"You have to forgive her," John said.

Sherlock sat up, frowning. "Who?"

"Oh, come on. Naomi, of course."

"I don't want to."

"Sherlock." John scooted close and took Sherlock's long hands in his own. "You have absolutely every right to be upset with her, okay? That's fine. And with your parents, too, for that matter - but I don't know them, so let's just, um, stick to this woman." John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, I know her now, too, and I can say very confidently that she's a complete idiot and in no way worth your time. Be angry, that's fine, but at some point you do have to move on. The world's full of idiots, and you usually deal with them adequately enough ... anyway, what I'm saying is, don't waste your time on her. Greg'll handle her interview, and then she's out of your life for good."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a smile. "I missed the opportunity for a good case when I stormed out of the Yard. It was an eight, at least."

"There's all sorts of other cases." John stood up. "I need a quick shower. Believe it or not, I actually have to go into work tonight."

Sherlock nodded, his gaze following John's backside as he left the room. Once the doctor was completely gone, he cleaned himself up a bit and collapsed onto the sofa, limp and far too exhausted to cover his naked flesh.

Suddenly, before he knew what was happening, he was crying bitterly. He wanted so badly to take John's advice, to forgive Naomi, to forgive his family, but he just couldn't. It wasn't even that any of them had done anything wrong, exactly - it was much more about what they _hadn't_ done. He thought of those times when he'd most desperately wanted (needed) someone - during nightmares, bouts of loneliness ... and later during his experiences at Uni and his drug use - and how those closest to him had never failed to be absent.

His weakness infuriated him. _Mycroft_ had never felt this way - Mycroft was the well-liked firstborn son, showered with love and affection. Sherlock had always been an afterthought, and his barbed tongue hadn't exactly helped win him any favors.

Sherlock heard the shower going, so felt free to let loose his sobs. John knew how broken he was already; he didn't feel the need to burden his love anymore. Besides, it felt good, in a way. He'd have his cry, and then he'd promptly flush himself of Naomi Clayton (and all the other 'caretakers') forever. It wasn't 'deleting', per se, but more a cleansing of the system - and it felt pretty damn great.

It was, if anything, a step in the right direction.

* * *

John got out of the shower and found a text waiting for him on his mobile. It was from Harry, telling him to call as quickly as possible.

"Harry," he said, surprised. "How are you?"

"Good - er, listen: Mum and Dad are finally giving up the traveling for awhile, yeah? They'll be in London this coming week and we were thinking of doing a family reunion of sorts. I know it's annoying, but we'll humor them, okay? I think more than anything they're curious about you and Sherlock!" She laughed.

John felt his stomach drop. "Uh, okay. What days?"

"Next Monday through Friday. Don't plan anything big - tell Sherlock not to, either."

"We'll see how that goes," John said, laughing nervously. "I just got done showering, so I'll call you back later, alright?"

"Yeah, sure."

The call ended. John set the phone down, insides turned to mush.

He'd thought meeting Sherlock's old nanny had been enough digging up of the past - but now John's parents, the perpetual drifters, were stopping by for a visit? The very thought of it was petrifying. Sherlock's relations were neglectful, and John's, well ... John's were the exact opposite. John's were positively smothering.

He straightened his shoulders, preparing himself days in advance for a week of absolute hell.

* * *

_**A/N: Bringing in John's parents does in fact have bearing on the story; I'm not just throwing that in as a distraction (I promise)! And as plotless and unformatted as this story may currently seem, there will always be the recurring theme of John and Sherlock's building relationship and Sherlock growing more comfortable with being physical, etc. I'm not entirely sure as of yet how long this story will be, but I have a general ending already figured out, so that everything comes together nicely ... in case you were wondering ;)**_

_**Oh, also ... thank you for the positive feedback! It truly means a lot because I usually stick to one-shots (part of me is convinced nobody will stay interested enough to read a longer fic of mine; I suffer from a general lack of confidence), and this is probably the longest multi-chaptered fic I've written to date. After posting Chapter 5 I reached about 50ish follows, which may not sound like a lot but the idea that all of you are keeping up with this story is so exciting. So, um, thank you *bows dramatically* ... but seriously though, I'm very grateful ^_^.**_


	7. Skeletons In the Closet

If John had been chronicling his parents' upcoming arrival on his blog, he might have titled the experience "Awaiting Purgatory", or something equally dramatic. The fact that they were actually going to be staying at 221B made things even worse - it meant literally exorcising the place of all things undesirable. Needless to say, all the body parts in the fridge had to go, along with all the experiments. The skull and the jackknife in the mantle were put away for the time being; the smiley face on the wall, however, couldn't really be fixed (a large picture as a cover would've looked even homelier).

The nice thing, though, was that John wasn't tidying the place by himself. Mrs. Hudson seemed to forget that she wasn't their housekeeper and set about polishing up the tables. Hell, even Sherlock was chipping in a little, off getting groceries. The pending arrival was still a form of purgatory (John insisted), but at least he didn't feel as stressed as he'd felt before.

John was in the middle of straightening a bookshelf when Sherlock burst through the door, collar turned up against the wind and about ten bags in hand, all full of food.

"Let me help you with those, dear," Mrs. Hudson offered, bustling over and relieving him a little.

Sherlock followed the landlady towards the kitchen. To John's surprise, he'd actually bought quite a few normal-looking things: bread, milk, cheese, pasta, and even a few frozen steaks. And then there was John's favorite: strawberry jam.

"I thought you would like-" Sherlock began, but John had already caught him from behind in a big hug.

"Stop being so lovely," John teased. "Just stop. You're making this getting-ready thing far too easy for me, you know that?" He was mildly aware of Mrs. Hudson cooing in the background, and realized with a short laugh how ridiculously domestic this all seemed, but he didn't care. It was wonderful and everything was going to be okay, period.

He could only hope he wasn't being too overly-optimistic.

* * *

"_John!_"

Harry Watson burst into 221B and threw her arms around her brother. "So sorry I didn't knock, I didn't think I'd have to-"

John patted Harry's back and pulled her away gently. His sister looked even better than ever - no symptoms of the alcoholism that had plagued her months before; eyes bright and even a new hairstyle. John forgot for a moment to be stressed, feeling nothing but pride for her.

"You look great, Harry," he said, grinning.

"Mum and Dad and talking with the landlady," Harry said with a laugh. "Don't ask me why; seems like they've got to talk to everybody these days. But anyway, where's Sherlock? I've only seen him in pictures so far; I might actually make an exception for that hot piece of ... oh, _my_."

Sherlock had appeared in the doorway, suit pressed, hair combed, looking as clean-shaven and ridiculously put-together as ever. Both Harry and John went a deep shade of scarlet.

"Well, I certainly see the resemblance," Sherlock said, entering the room and quirking an eyebrow.

"The man himself!" Harry gushed. "I've been all over John's blog, of course, and I've seen you on telly and everything, but - _wow_. Just wow."

"An overabundance of flattery," Sherlock murmured, "Another Watson trait, I presume." The words might've seemed bitter but the tone wasn't. He actually sounded rather pleased.

Eventually John's parents made their appearance. John's father was taller than Sherlock had been expecting, with a firm jaw but an innocent gleam in his eyes. John's mother, though, was very short, with a head of blonde waves and a mischievous grin. Sherlock could see traits of their children in the both of them, not just physically, but by the way they held themselves, too.

"Oh, John, what were we thinking, going off for so long?" Mrs. Watson gasped. "Those neighbors of ours, the Ketterleys, fooled us into going on another trip with them, sneaky things! But we're back for the week; isn't that nice?" She threw her arms around her son in the way Harry had.

"Oh, yes," John said, doing his best to sound thrilled as his father joined the hug.

"And _Sherlock_, of course," John's mother said, turning to the detective and beaming.

"Mrs. Watson," Sherlock said, nodding. He felt a bit uncomfortable; he wasn't entirely sure what to do with his hands, so he placed them behind his back.

"Call me Elaine; it's less formal," she answered.

"And I'm Marcus," John's father added.

Before Sherlock knew what was happening, John's parents were hugging him, too. Sherlock was entirely unprepared for this and made to put his hands up defensively, but ended up returning the embrace. He felt oddly moved - John had said his parents were overbearing, but really, this wasn't so bad. They were a family, after all. A nice, loving family.

And that's what families did, right? Cared about each other?

The hug lasted for awhile, and Sherlock found himself meeting John's eyes, his jaw just a little slack. John saw the confusion there, so Sherlock quickly smiled, proof that he was fine. Hell, much more than fine. If he was completely honest, he might have said he was actually enjoying himself.

"Five whole days!" Harry crowed. "Mum and Dad have got a lot planned, John - a sort of family week, you know? And of course you're invited, Sherlock," she said, beaming at the taller man. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "John's told me so much about you, but you strike me as being even more complicated than that. I can't wait to learn all your dirty secrets!"

"And there are plenty of them, I assure you," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a grin as John's parents chuckled appreciatively.

"Erm, right," John said, wondering for the umpteenth time if the flat was tidy enough. "Mrs. Hudson's cleared out 221C as a guest room for the time being, so, er -"

"We've got everything situated, John," Elaine said, smiling maternally. "Now enough with the frivolities! Let's go out and have some fun, shall we?"

* * *

The entire time, John could only hope that Sherlock wasn't unspeakably bored.

Everything his parents wanted to do was so _silly_. From boating on the Thames to traversing through Hyde Park, you'd think they'd never actually been to London before. If John thought something was tedious, well, Sherlock was probably losing his mind.

It didn't help that Harry couldn't seem to stop peppering Sherlock with questions, all of the naughty variety.

"I'll bet you anything you're a man of secret fetishes," she said with a smirk. John, walking a little ahead, was beyond grateful that his parents were even farther up the road; this wasn't something he much cared for them to overhear. "Let me guess: military kink. You like John giving orders and wearing dog tags about the flat."

"Don't give him ideas, Harry," John said, stepping in to save the day. To his surprise, Sherlock actually seemed to be contemplating his sister's idea. "Besides, it's a little odd, knowing that you're planning these things out for us."

Harry shrugged. "I've got nothing else to do," she said, though she evidently got the hint and went to join her parents up ahead.

"I know this is dull," John grumbled.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock said quickly.

"They're both absurd."

"Yes ... they are." Sherlock was smirking, though the way he'd said it hadn't been rude. He almost sounded ... approving? "And your sister's positively invasive." He paused. "But I like them."

John had been about to start complaining about how it was only Day One of their visit, but this last comment startled him. He glanced up at Sherlock and caught sight of the look in his eyes. He looked very happy, and suddenly John realized: maybe Sherlock _liked_ overbearing. Not from regular people, but from those he trusted - John's relations, for example ... if anything, it was probably a stark contrast to how he'd grown up. The thought was saddening but John didn't want to be a buzz-kill (or rude, for that matter) by pointing it out.

It bothered him, in a way, the realization that he was taking his parents for granted, while Sherlock, on the other hand, was reveling in their attention. God, was he embarrassed; he'd been acting like a sulky child!

"They're very happy together," Sherlock mentioned. It was by no means a brilliant deduction but it was certainly accurate.

"Yes," John said, wondering what his love could possibly be thinking. He took hold of one of Sherlock's gloved hands and squeezed it tight. "Though I doubt they're the only ones."

They made their way back to Baker Street, fingers twined together.

* * *

On Thursday evening, Elaine came to the realization that she and her husband were "completely sucking away all John and Sherlock's alone time", convincing Marcus and Harry that the three of them should spend the night out.

"We ought to give you two a break, after all," she reasoned. "It's awful of us, taking over your flat like this ..." She pecked John on the cheek, motioning to Sherlock to bend down so she could do the same for him. "My boys," she said, beaming. "We'll stay out as late as possible, so have all the fun you like!" She gave a rather audacious wink and left the room.

"It's obvious where Harry gets it," Sherlock murmured, in reference to Elaine's boldness.

"Yeah, I suppose," John murmured. "It's a bit awkward, really - both Harry and Mum seem to think they're professional matchmakers. They seem utterly convinced we'll start shagging the moment they're gone!"

"Wasn't that the plan?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Oh, for God's sake." John pulled his jumper over his head and unzipped his jeans. Sherlock followed suit.

"I don't suppose ... you _do_ have your old dog tags?" Sherlock said, feeling cheeky.

"Mm, no," John said, marveling at how warm he was growing. Sherlock, surprisingly, was even warmer. "I don't like to mix work with play. Especially not that kind of work."

"It was worth a shot," Sherlock muttered, his voice a regretful purr.

"I do have something else in mind," John said, finding Sherlock's cock and running his fingers along the shaft. Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat and his body went slack, sinking into John's own. Sinking into the touch.

_Much better than the dog tags,_ Sherlock decided.

John found the head and stroked it slowly, working his hand back up the shaft in strong, confident caresses. Sherlock let out a garbled moan, his head tilted back in his uninhibited state, the light shining on his sumptuous neck.

At last, John had the power, and he absolutely fucking loved it. Loved watching how he could make Sherlock feel. For the past four months Sherlock had always - _always_ - topped, administered, called the shots. At long last, Three Continents Watson was about to prove that he was still worthy of the title.

His hands moved up Sherlock's hips and to his waist, directing him to his leather chair and gently pushing him into it.

"Spread your legs," he commanded. He wondered if he did have a military kink after all, but pushed the thought aside. Giving orders and roleplaying weren't exactly the same thing ... were they?

Sherlock complied, his cherubic features at odds with his massive hard-on. John wondered if his love knew what he had planned, and hoped in vain he didn't. Regardless, this would still be exciting. This was even newer territory, after all.

"Well, John? Are you going to keep me waiting?"

That velvety voice couldn't possibly go any deeper - but John certainly could. He knelt on the floor, between two willowy legs, and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth.

"Oh! _Nnnnng_ ..." Sherlock breathed, head thrown back luxuriously, arms clutching at the chair to stop their shaking. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and the back of his neck. John's tongue was adept and every lick felt like an electric jolt; besides that, he was _fast_. Sherlock's head pounded to the rhythm of John's up-and-down movements, his heart hammering in his chest. God, there was so much noise, so much going on, and by the feel of things John wasn't about to quit ...

Sherlock's hands found the sides of John's head, slowing the movement, if only a little. Giving him a sense of control - because it didn't matter that John was down on his knees in front of him; despite everything, he was still at the ex-soldier's mercy.

His cock was harder than ever, pent-up and dying for release. John's hands found the insides of Sherlock's thighs and began stroking indulgently, grinning inwardly as he felt the detective squirm.

"J-Jawn!" Sherlock panted, trying and failing to suck in a breath. "I need to-"

He didn't finish; like the release of a coiled spring, he came, sagging against the chair but keeping his eyes fixed on John. He felt as though he were waiting forever for a reaction, but hardly half a second had gone by before John swallowed.

_Oh, God, yes,_ Sherlock thought. There was something immeasurably appealing about knowing that John was a swallower; that he didn't have any qualms about Sherlock coming in his mouth. Before he knew what was happening, he was giggling like a teenaged girl.

"Sherlock, Jesus!" John laughed, wiping his mouth and perching on Sherlock's lap. "What's gotten into you?"

"You didn't spit," Sherlock said gleefully.

"Well, why should I?" John asked, tousling his lover's dark curls. Sherlock had probably reasoned that John had never given head before, but he certainly wasn't complaining, which was good. This was his first time topping (with Sherlock, at least), and the thought made him giddy - giddy of the 'I'm-So-Happy-I-Could-Run-Around-London-Buck-Naked ' variety. He'd almost convinced himself that this was a perfectly sound idea when Sherlock took hold of his arm, stopping him before he walked out the door.

"Stay," Sherlock said. The word was simple but it was all the convincing John needed.

He nodded, physically feeling his head start to clear. "Okay."

* * *

John and Sherlock woke late Friday morning, leaving Marcus, Elaine, and Harry to draw all sorts of conclusions. The day went on as usual, featuring board games, a visit to Harrod's, and a _Doctor Who_ marathon. When it came time to part ways (the Watsons had an arrangement to fly to Brussels ... with the Ketterleys, of course), John found he could hardly believe they'd been there five whole days. It hadn't seemed that long.

"Have fun, Mum, Dad," John said, hugging them tight. He found himself genuinely sad that they were leaving.

"We'd stay longer, but we mustn't detain you and Sherlock from your, ah, _work_," Elaine said, grinning impishly as she hugged Sherlock for perhaps the hundredth time. The latter didn't seem to mind, though.

"Jesus, Mum," Harry groaned, rolling her eyes. "Enough with the innuendos already!"

"Innuendos? What innuendos?" Elaine asked, feigning naivete.

Marcus chuckled, putting an arm around his wife's shoulders. "Come along," he said, steering her out of the room before she could go any further.

"Cheers, you two," Harry called, flashing them a lopsided grin.

The door closed behind them. Just like that, the flat felt eerily quiet.

"Wow," John muttered. "It's actually over."

"Ye-es," Sherlock said, sounding contemplative.

"What's on your mind?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, you don't normally see couples like that, for one. So smitten with each other. I suppose it's refreshing, in a way ... if you care about that sort of thing." He sucked at his cheek, wondering what had convinced him to voice such a thought.

"They almost got a divorce, awhile back," John said suddenly. The fact was just occurring to him; sometimes he forgot it when he saw how enamored his parents were of each other, and besides, it had hardly been worth mentioning before.

"Did they?" Sherlock said, moving to the window and watching the Watsons load their luggage into a cab. "I had deduced almost as much; I dropped the idea, though, because such a notion struck me as impossible. How-"

"I don't really understand it myself," John admitted. "They've always gotten along well - but not nearly so well ten years ago, I think. That's when they were planning to split. There was marriage therapy, or something, and they've been all over each other since. Sometimes I wonder if it's all a ruse, their positivity," he admitted. "Like they're trying to save their marriage or something. But the more I think about it, I don't think it is. I think they've grown to love each other more because they went through that together."

For some reason, John had been expecting some acidic remark or other, but what he got was even more surprising: silence.

"Hey, love?" John said, stepping closer and taking Sherlock's hand comfortingly. "You alright?"

"I've been an idiot," Sherlock said.

"Wait - _what?_"

"I'm sorry if I've been acting envious."

"Envious - whoa, okay, Sherlock ... slow down. I don't know what you're talking about." And really, he didn't. Sherlock was being even more cryptic than usual.

"I-" Sherlock swallowed. "When your parents arrived, all I could see was this perfect little family. You all love each other so much. You're all such good people. I think I did well at hiding it, but for the past five days I've been literally swamped with envy. And I couldn't for the life of me understand why you didn't want them around. I don't know ... forget it. It's stupid."

"No, it's not," John said, voice adamant. He thought back to how he'd taken his mum and dad for granted, and felt sick to his stomach at the very idea. "Sherlock, you're part of our family too, do you realize that?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he tried to wrap his mind around John's words. "I, er - thank you," he said, brows drawn in. "I'm having a hard time voicing my thoughts," he admitted.

"Just say whatever comes to mind."

Sherlock nodded. "I realized that I wasn't seeing things clearly. I may still find your position enviable, John, but not nearly as much now. Your parents almost went through a divorce; that must've been rough. Then there's Harry's alcoholism and your PTSD. Point being, I was idealizing your situation, and I'm sorry."

"Every family has its skeletons in the closet," John said. "I highly doubt our situation is all that bad, compared to others'. Besides, we got through all those things. My PTSD's better - dormant, at least. Harry's off the booze. My parents have never been happier." He smiled, contemplating. "I have you." The more he thought about it, the more his situation _did_ seem enviable. Because the Watsons had had their share of trouble, but they'd all been strong enough to pull through. Not many families had that kind of willpower, and suddenly, John felt as though he were rubbing it in, right in Sherlock's face. _Nice going, Watson,_ he thought irritably.

"Well, even so, I haven't any reason to be covetous - not anymore. I _am_ part of the family, after all," he said, a satisfied lilt to his voice.

"Right you are," John said with a grin.

Sherlock's gaze fixed itself once more on the street below, his eyes going wide. John stiffened.

"What is it?" he asked, taking a look for himself.

Sherlock didn't have to respond; it was obvious. A sleek black car had just pulled up in front of 221, and the British Government himself was getting out of the backseat. He looked tense; the way he clutched at his umbrella and his determined stride to the front door showed he meant business - more so than usual.

Mycroft Holmes rarely, if ever, paid a visit to their flat. On the occasion that he did, he always brought bad news.

Both John and Sherlock deduced that this time, what he had to say would be worse than ever.


	8. Severing Ties

_**A/N: Thank you **_**johnsarmylady**_** for the Britpicking!**_

* * *

"For goodness' sake, Sherlock, would it kill you to answer your phone once in awhile?"

The casual observer would not see anything out of place in Mycroft's appearance - not the tie, ever-so-slightly askew, not the slight twitch of the mouth, and not the tight grip on the umbrella, as though it were some sort of defense weapon.

Obviously John and Sherlock weren't casual observers.

"I do answer my phone," Sherlock retorted. "When it benefits me."

"And you were unable to deduce, after fourteen missed calls, that my reason for bothering you was important?"

Sherlock sighed. "With all due respect, Mycroft, John and I have been entertaining guests this morning. You're here now; what is it you have to tell me?"

Mycroft frowned, looking a bit nauseated. "John, if you'll excuse us-"

"You can say anything in front of John that you would me," Sherlock said irritably.

John didn't like where this was going. The tension was high, and between the Holmes brothers that was never a good thing. He fought the urge to tell Mycroft to come 'out with it, already'.

Mycroft shrugged. "It's Mummy. She's had an accident."

The silence that followed seemed interminable. John's eyes widened and his jaw went slack; he couldn't think of anything to say. He decided to leave it to Sherlock; this was his family, and therefore his area.

... but was it, really?

"What sort of accident?" Sherlock asked, his voice flat.

"Automobile."

"Mummy doesn't drive," Sherlock insisted, sounding bemused.

"Well-noted, Sherlock, as always. I don't pretend to understand it any more than you do; apparently she got it in her head to take the Mini out for a go, colliding head-on with another vehicle in the process." Mycroft paused. "She got far on her own, surprisingly; she'd almost reached London by the time of the collision. Broken arm, bruised collarbone - nothing serious, but she is getting on in years, so naturally she's taking it much worse."

John listened with horror to the cold, detached way Mycroft delivered this news, and with greater horror still at the way Sherlock accepted it. He'd done nothing but place his hands behind his back, jaw set.

"Well?" Mycroft said. "Won't you come along, dear brother? She's at St. Mary's; it might be considerate of you to drop in and offer condolences-"

"Mm, yes, I suppose that would be in order," Sherlock murmured, though it struck John that his love wasn't actually considering anything. "I don't suppose Father will be there?" he asked suddenly.

"That is ... uncertain. It would make sense for him to visit, but seeing as he's the cause of all this mess ..."

"Sorry, what?" John gaped.

Mycroft glanced from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock again, as if unsure of whether or not to proceed. He eventually decided on the former.

"From what I've been able to piece together, our parents had a rather large row, and our mother wanted space, as it were. Hence the driving off without a thought." He cleared his throat. "She has been known to be a bit flighty."

"What was the fight about?" Sherlock asked.

"Anything and everything, I'm sure. Mummy was talking about receiving a phone call of some sort, but I doubt she knows what she's saying."

"And she very well may not," Sherlock said, shrugging. He gave his brother an expectant look.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft did not look amused.

"I don't suppose you'll be leaving soon?"

"Jesus," John said, stepping in. "It's your mother, Sherlock; she's in hospital. You can't just-"

The detective positively glowered. "You'd do best not to test me, John." He turned to his brother. "The same goes for you, Mycroft." With that he exited the room, posture ramrod-straight as ever.

"He's bothered, obviously," Mycroft murmured, once he and John were alone. "This might be better, though. It would be too risky, having him say something insensitive, especially when Mummy's so frazzled." He smiled weakly. "Apologies, John." With a slight tap of the umbrella, he exited the room as well.

John was left standing there, feeling rather baffled himself. He decided the best thing he could do was to go talk some sense into his friend, regardless of whether or not it worked.

Surely it's worth a try, he thought to himself, not entirely convinced.

* * *

Once in the bedroom, Sherlock set about removing his clothes, knowing that John would follow him up eventually. Sure enough he appeared, but sooner than Sherlock had been expecting - his jacket was off, his trousers only just unbuttoned. In other words, there was still far too much skin covered.

"What are you doing?" John asked upon entering.

"Getting ready to have sex," Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock seriously doubted he'd ever seen John so flabbergasted in all his life, even at the worst of times. It was almost laughable, in a way.

"Are you mad?" John gasped. "For God's sake, Sherlock, your mother-"

"Yes, she'll be fine," Sherlock mused. "Minimal injuries - and then there's the ironclad constitution of the Holmeses, and so on-"

"Sherlock, this really isn't funny." The detective finally understood the meaning of the expression 'glaring daggers' - that's exactly what John was doing now, perhaps worse. "No sex until you go see her."

"But-but I-" Sherlock spluttered. "That's not fair!" he said petulantly, one step away from an all-out tantrum.

"Yeah, well, how do you think your mother feels? And if your parents are having a row, and if your father isn't there, either-"

"Oh, so this is suddenly my responsibility?" Sherlock snapped.

"No, but that's your family, and I'm sorry, but the last thing on my mind right now is a bloody shag, okay? We've got the rest of our lives for that. I just don't see-" John paused, considered. "Oh. I see. You - the sex ... you want a distraction?"

Sherlock's glower dropped a little. "Perhaps ..."

"This actually bothers you."

"Yes. The fact that just when things were going so well for us - just when I was becoming comfortable with our relationship and starting to move on from the past and all that rubbish ... this had to happen." Sherlock's hands clenched into fists. "All of a sudden, I'm supposed to be concerned about people like that Clayton woman and Mummy when I thought I'd closed the door on all of them. As you would so poetically put it, chaos is rearing its ugly head." Sherlock tossed himself onto the bed in a dramatic manner; John would've laughed if the occasion weren't so serious. "So forgive me for wanting a quick shag to get my mind off things," he finished, closing his eyes and letting out a huff.

John moved to the opposite side of the bed, resting a hand in Sherlock's hair and stroking gently. "I understand," he said simply.

Sherlock eyes remained closed, but his brows drew in severely. "Do you?" he said, his voice soft.

"Yes. And I'm fully willing to give you sex - loads of it, okay? But you have to go see her. That's all I'm asking."

Sherlock's eyes finally opened. "Come with me," he said.

"Um, if you're sure-"

"Yes, I need you there. I haven't seen her in years - besides, I need someone to stop me from losing it completely."

"Well, I'm certainly the man for the job," John said, weakly attempting humor.

To his relief, Sherlock actually smiled.

* * *

Sherlock hated hospitals. He knew John was comfortable in them (he was a doctor, after all), but the detective himself had never seen the appeal. They reeked of illness, death and decay ... but not the good kind. Not the kind that warranted a case.

He hated the desperate, feral look in the eyes of the people he passed. Some were clutching at straws, hoping their loved ones would pull through. Others were preparing themselves for unnerving surgeries or births or whatever else it might be.

It didn't matter that his mother only had minor injuries. It was the idea of seeing Mummy, period, that made him anxious. At the very least they could've met in a cafe or a hotel or even back at Baker Street - i.e., somewhere familiar. Their current setting made things so much worse.

When they entered Mummy's room, she was sitting upright in a bed by the window, looking surprisingly poised for someone just out of a car wreck. Her arm was in a sling, as was expected, and her neck was bandaged. The latter, at least, must have been quite painful.

Sherlock didn't think his mother looked much different from when he'd seen her last, all those years ago: petite, with dark hair and bright eyes - quite a bit like himself, but smaller and obviously more feminine. He felt John stiffen a bit beside him, clearly surprised by the striking resemblance.

"Sherlock," his mother said, turning to face him. "And Dr. Watson, I presume?"

"John," the doctor answered, fighting down the knot in his throat. He didn't know why he was so nervous - was it the air of regality in Mrs. Holmes' features? But no, he'd been expecting that - he knew her sons, after all! Perhaps it was the idea that Sherlock wasn't close to her - or that she had never been close to him, for that matter. At any rate, she seemed perfectly normal now. He was a bit scared of anything happening if they stayed there much longer. But no, he was there for moral support. This was something Sherlock had to do - if anything, he was the one who probably felt uneasy.

Sherlock picked up a clipboard by the bed, his eyes narrowing. "You're listed here under your maiden name," he said. "Is there a reason-"

"Your father and I are separated - unofficially, for now," Mrs. Holmes said with a sniff. "It was a bit of a pride thing, signing in under that name, but-"

"What's going on? Tell me, from the beginning," Sherlock said.

"Why bother? I'm sure you've deduced it."

John wondered why he felt so stung when he heard those words, the offhand way Sherlock's mother mentioned his gift. Now he was not only uncomfortable; he was actually growing angry.

"I'm not here to impress anybody with my deductions. Just tell us what happened and we'll be on our way," Sherlock said.

John was growing fairly used to the icy chill in the room by now; he was starting not to notice it.

"Fine." Sherlock's mother itched at her neck bandage absently. "Your father and I have been having these little rows for years - ever since you were little, really. We did our best to keep you from knowing, but I'm sure you figured out about them early on. Always silly little things - there's a stubborn streak in our family, you know."

"Is there?" Sherlock suddenly found it hard to focus. He was all-too aware of John hovering nearby, having a glimpse into his private life, seeing his mother in such a state, discussing rows like they were nothing ...

"Anyway," Mrs. Holmes continued, "Our latest dispute had to do with some woman calling our house, blithering on about you, Sherlock, of all people. Mrs. Clayton, or someone? I honestly don't remember - she was absolutely exhausting, I must say. Said she'd run into you, or something. Your father was the one who answered the call, and he was positively furious - said I 'shouldn't be giving out our home number; it's for business purposes only', or some such rot. 'Not for gossipy wenches', were his exact words. Annoyed by this accusation, I told him that 'at the very least Mrs. Clayton had a hand in raising Sherlock, while you were off abroad all the time, seeing who knows who!' - and then he started insisting that I was just as absent, and probably seeing all sorts of mysterious lovers myself, and, well ..." Mrs. Holmes caught sight of Sherlock's choleric expression and began attempting to conclude her story. "Point being, we were in another ridiculous row and I said I was thisclose to breaking it off altogether, that we'd been heading in that direction for years, and he'd told me to leave right then and there, if I was so bothered. So I took off in the Mini and was doing a pretty good job of not crashing - until I did just that." Mrs. Holmes gave a doleful shrug. "That's it, I suppose. It's too bad about the car, you know ..."

"We-ell," Sherlock said, his voice a sort of mix between a lilt and a drawl, "This is excellent! You're both as irascible and melodramatic as ever! I absolutely love being dragged into these sort of things, as you can imagine." He turned to John, who was looking a bit petrified. "And I'm sure John does, too."

"You didn't have to come," Mrs. Holmes said, lips pursed.

"No, I didn't, but Mycroft was being annoying. And besides," Sherlock's look of contempt softened, but only a little, "As you said, this plan of separation, or whatever you want to call it, has gone too long unaddressed. It's about time it did, as I'm sure you know better than I."

"Sherlock-"

The detective shook his head. "We'd best be going."

He quickly exited the room, and John had no choice but to follow.

* * *

It really was ironic, in a way - not an hour earlier they'd been discussing John's parents, and how they'd been about to get divorced - but in the end, love had prevailed. And now Sherlock's own parents were fighting - over petty things, no less - and wanted to call it off completely? After being married forty-plus years?

Sherlock had known about their rows - suspected, anyway. It wasn't as though he'd been around them much, of course; they'd made sure to have them when he wasn't there. Had that been on purpose?

But no, it was probably only coincidence. It wasn't as though they wanted to protect him or anything.

He felt very tired all of a sudden. He thought he'd distanced himself from Mummy for good - yet here she was, far too close for comfort, getting battered in car wrecks.

That's the difference between the Holmeses and the Watsons, it would seem, he thought. The Watsons don't look the type, but they're strong and loyal and could get through just about anything. My family, for all things, appears outwardly collected in every aspect, but we're all complete messes on the inside.

He told himself he was by no means envious of John, seeing as he was a part of their family now, but it was hard to feel that way completely when his own kin was lurking just around the corner.

"Sherlock," John said gently, wrapping his arms around the detective and nuzzling his face into strong shoulderblades, "This is a lot to take in, I'm sure." He found the sides of Sherlock's lean waist and rubbed his hands up and down, creating friction. Sherlock warmed to the touch, feeling himself start to relax.

"You still want that sex?" John murmured.

Sherlock nodded, unable to find words. His body felt sluggish and he wasn't sure if he was fully prepared for this, but he decided to have a go at it anyway.

John, noticing the signs of Sherlock's physical shutdown, kept an arm around his waist and led him up the stairs, the lanky detective leaning against his frame. He didn't entirely know Sherlock's thoughts on the morning's events, but he knew his love was feeling copious amounts of stress.

When they finally reached the bed, Sherlock made to unbutton his shirt, but John brushed his hand aside.

"I'm going to undress you," the doctor said gently, "Piece by piece. And we are not going to think about what happened earlier for a good long while."

Jacket, trousers, shirt, and pants all fell to the floor, in that order. John slicked up Sherlock's thighs with the lube ... but not his cock. Oh, God, what was he planning? Sherlock shivered with anticipation, though he couldn't seem to formulate an answer to his own question.

John moved on to his balls, reveling in the whimpering noise coming from the back of Sherlock's throat. As much as he enjoyed a hard shag, this was something entirely new and about twice as wonderful - taking things slow, watching Sherlock's every feature, every uninhibited gasp and moan ...

John straddled Sherlock's hips and got a leg over, finally managing to push him onto the bed. He dexterously tossed his own clothing aside (even he marveled at how he'd managed to do it without completely fumbling), and soon enough they were both undressed, not a single obstacle in their way but for one of the bedsheets, which wasn't so bothersome anyway.

Sherlock watched in a haze as John shifted position, curled up against Sherlock's side but with his cock dangerously close. John began sucking at Sherlock's shaft for the second time in a twenty-four hour period, but even in his clouded state Sherlock realized this was different. Nobody was topping or bottoming this time, as they were on their sides. But somehow, Sherlock couldn't piece together ...

... oh. Yes. That made sense.

Sherlock's lips parted and he took John's erection in his own mouth, licking voluptuously and relishing at how John bucked, all while continuing to suck off his own cock. Suddenly he was awake, wondering how in God's name he could be feeling so many sensations at once - his own pleasure was more than enough, but now he was feeling John's too - even more so than ever.

He focused on each lick, each individual movement, even as his mind began to scatter. John was more experienced in this area; he knew just what to do to make Sherlock as hard as possible ...

At the same time, Sherlock was aware that John was feeling tension, too, and without further notice he was swallowing as the doctor came. A second later he did the same, and John swallowed, as was expected.

"Mmm, you're glorious," John murmured, wiping himself up and curling around Sherlock's frame, one hand massaging a shoulder, the other a buttock. Like a delicate china doll, he thought fondly, though he didn't say that lest Sherlock take it the wrong way.

The hand slid up from the buttock and to one of the nipples, outlining it slowly, deliberately.

"That-that was good," Sherlock said, feeling even more tired than before. "I don't think I could afford to do that again today, though. Even though we went slow."

"It's fine," John said, drawing Sherlock in closer. "This started out about you; it's going to end that way."

The massage continued, talented fingers across smooth flesh. The touches had a sort of soporific effect on Sherlock, and within minutes he was drifting asleep. Finally allowing himself to stop thinking about his mother's accident or the separation or anything to do with his family, really. Those thoughts only led to trouble.

Of course he knew that at some point he'd have to start remembering ... but in those moments, curled up in John's arms, he allowed himself to forget.


	9. Vices and Virtues

For the next month Sherlock made a point of ignoring familial obligations altogether. He stayed updated, thanks to a series of calls from Mycroft ('Mummy's finally out of hospital', 'They're getting the divorce all sorted out', etc.), but other than that he did not make his family's business his own.

John could tell it was bothering his friend, though. Every time Mycroft called with developments, Sherlock would listen with a frown, but not a single dry remark. He'd set the phone aside, tap his fingers restlessly for a moment, and go off to his room.

He always came back within minutes, however, without clothing and ready for sex.

The problem was, John had a really, _really_ hard time denying Sherlock in that department, but he knew what was happening was wrong. It was clear Sherlock was perturbed by whatever was being said in these calls, and dealing with it by being intimate.

John didn't like it one bit.

* * *

"Mmm ..." Sherlock murmured with a yawn, entering the sitting-room and stretching. John looked up from his magazine and smiled appreciatively - tousled curls, pyjama bottoms hanging low on his waist, dressing-gown slipping off a shoulder ... but no shirt in sight, giving John a nice look at the trail of dark hair under his navel, thickening at his groin. On anyone else it might've looked shoddy but Sherlock, of course, wore it well.

"Just woke up?" John asked, taking his eyes off Sherlock for a moment to glance at his watch. Half-past two.

"No," Sherlock said, sitting down beside John on the sofa and wrapping his lanky limbs about the doctor's frame. John pulled Sherlock in even closer by his waist, kissing him lightly on the nose. "Mycroft phoned; took about an hour to get him off the line."

"How are things?" John asked. "You haven't been talking to me about - about what's been going on." He knew it wasn't going well, but he wanted to hear it straight from the horse's mouth.

Sherlock shrugged indolently. "It's completely ridiculous," he muttered. "I'll save you the dramatics."

He began to rock his hips titillatingly against John's own. John shivered as Sherlock's erection pushed against his newfound one. Already it seemed Sherlock's bottoms had moved even further down his waist, offering a nice view of ample posterior ...

John made to cup one of the buttocks in question but stopped short. Mycroft had just called. He and Sherlock were frotting, which always, _always_ led to sex. Sex, presumably, to distract Sherlock from whatever was going on. Whatever he'd been called about.

At first, John had been willing. Now, however, he saw how incredibly unhealthy such an idea was. Sex felt good, sex could be used as a distraction. Hell, Sherlock had told him before that sex helped him to stop thinking for awhile, which could, according to him, sometimes be a good thing. The appeal of the activity was obvious, but John didn't want their sex to be like that. He wanted it fueled by passion, by love - not by stress or anger or sadness or any of those things.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John said, taking Sherlock by the sides and holding him steady. Sherlock bucked one last time but eventually saw what was happening, a full pout now in place. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded, growing querulous.

"This isn't right," John said. "I see you're upset - you have been, for the past month, really. But there's other things we could do, okay? We could go out to dinner, see a movie - hell, we could even cuddle. Just ... not this. This is a bit not good."

Sherlock scowled. "You never had a problem with it before."

"Yes, but now I'm worried." John cleared his throat. "I guess in a sense I know what it's like, watching your parents go through marriage difficulties, okay? And half the time it usually doesn't work out. I know you don't even want them in your life but now Mycroft's pestering you about them and, well - I'm sorry. I know that must be rough, but we can't be doing this."

"Glad to see you're here for me," Sherlock grumbled, pulling up his bottoms and belting his robe - i.e., walling himself off from John completely. He got off John's lap, crossing his arms over his chest with an even deeper scowl than before.

"I'm always here for you," John said simply.

"Really? I never would've guessed."

John fought to keep from being stung by the words, but was unsuccessful. He knew Sherlock was deeply affected by the past month's events and had a very hard time not being stroppy, but his insults were hitting harder than ever.

John decided he'd had enough.

"Fine!" he said angrily. "Be that way! Go off and sulk; act like a child for all I care! But using me as a distraction? It's wrong, and I'm bloody sick of giving in all the time."

Sherlock unfolded his arms and lost the scowl.

"Go, then." His voice was very soft. "Go, just like everyone else."

John was torn. If he stormed out, he'd be living up to Sherlock's accusation, but if he stayed, he'd lose his pride. What mattered more?

In the end, he decided to keep it simple - he gave Sherlock a hug. The gesture was not reciprocated.

"I just need a little space," John said.

He left the room, not allowing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes.

* * *

"I'm surprised you wanted to get drinks, of all things."

Lestrade hadn't meant to reference the Christmas party (albeit indirectly), but on this occasion, it was hard not to. John had called him up and asked if he wanted to go have a few, and he'd accepted, though he'd been shocked. Sure, he and John got together sometimes, but not often at the pub. Especially not after the party in question.

"Yeah, well, I'll be careful." John had to repeat to himself that he was _not_ using alcohol to drown out his problems, as Sherlock had been doing with sex. He would not fall into that trap; it would've been far too easy.

No, he was doing just what anyone else would do: catching up with a friend. Sherlock Holmes could sulk all he wanted, but John wasn't about to be dragged down, too.

"Sherlock giving you trouble?" Lestrade asked.

"How'd you-"

"I'm not a complete idiot, in case you hadn't noticed," the DI said. "I mean, well ... I might've been chatting with his brother."

"You _what?_" John was startled.

"Erm, yeah. Mycroft's not being very informative, but I can respect that. All I know is that Sherlock's been in a mood lately. Sorry, mate."

"Oh, no ... it's fine." John licked his lips. "So how'd you get on a first-name basis with the British Government, anyway?"

Lestrade laughed. "You'd never believe this, but awhile back he did nothing short of kidnap me and ask me to spy on his little brother. I said no, of course - but you probably think I'm a raving madman."

John chuckled. "No ... he did exactly the same to me. Funny how that works."

They both grinned, drinking to Mycroft Holmes's insanity.

"So, what's the deal? You seeing him now?"

"Getting there," Lestrade said, shrugging. "You know the Holmes brothers. They're complicated."

"No shit."

As if on cue, Mycroft himself materialized behind them, looking rather out of place in the pub setting. "Hello, Gregory," he said (fondly?). "And John, of course."

"Oh, hey," John said, noticing the DI's blush. God, that was weird; he'd never seen Greg Lestrade blush in his life. "Um, we ..."

"Sherlock told me where you might be, John," Mycroft said. "Believe it or not, I am not _always_ tracking your movements. In Gregory's case, well ... that's a different story."

"Joining us, then?" Lestrade asked, patting an empty stool.

"Not exactly. I was hoping to speak with John in private."

"Oh." Lestrade looked downcast.

"Another time, Gregory, I promise." Mycroft patted him on the shoulder. "There's a cafe down the street, John; perhaps we'd both be more comfortable there?"

"Yeah, I guess." John paid, said goodbye to the inspector, following the elder Holmes out of the pub and down to a cafe with tables outside. It was growing a bit dark, so no one was outside, but that was good. John had a feeling Mycroft didn't want their conversation broadcasted.

"So," Mycroft said, clasping his hands together on the table, "From what I hear, my brother is being even more hellish than ever."

John shrugged. "I haven't exactly figured out why; he's very quiet about what exactly you're calling him for."

"But you've deduced, surely?"

"Most of it."

Mycroft sighed. "Mummy was released from St. Mary's later than expected; her injuries were hurting more than she was letting on. We were all quite worried. Father visited only once, and it was to tell her that as soon as she was on her feet again, he wanted their separation sorted out."

"Jesus." That sounded rough.

"I believe the fact that his precious Mini got damaged was the last straw."

John sucked in a breath. "That's harsh."

"It's probably for the better," Mycroft said. "They're always having rows for the stupidest of reasons. Sherlock may complain about never having had them around, but in my case, being the eldest and more involved in family affairs, I found their constant bickering rather exhausting."

"Well, there's two sides to the story, I suppose," John said, more to himself. He couldn't even imagine for a second what it must've been like, growing up in such an unstable household. "If they're going to break it off, what's taking so long? Why are they prolonging it?"

"There was a business partnership, of sorts. They need to decide who gets what, and how this will affect their work, etc. I'll spare you the details."

"God." John was running out of things to say. This was a bigger affair than he'd realized, and just thinking about it was draining. "But why are you forcing Sherlock to keep up-to-date on all this?" he asked.

"He'd complain either way - if I didn't tell him, he'd been annoyed. I'm caught between two undesirable outcomes, so I decided he might as well know."

"I suppose." John stared blankly at the table. It was warm out - summer had descended upon them with a vengeance - but he was feeling even clammier than normal. Obviously the current temperature didn't help matters.

"Father's aloof, and Mummy's just an awful parent," Mycroft said bluntly. "They don't even realize how selfish they're being." He cleared his throat. "They say and do such stupid things; it's no surprise Sherlock's such a mess sometimes. He didn't have a hope from the start."

"Sorry, what?" John was bemused.

Mycroft looked as though he regretted what he'd said, but did his best to explain anyway. "I understand why Sherlock feels the way he does," he said. "I can empathize. I do care about him, after all, though it might not seem that way."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Mummy and Father were not around much during Sherlock's childhood - but you already knew that," Mycroft said, catching sight of John's nod. "Even from the beginning. He was - how shall I phrase this? - an accident, if you will. I think the only reason she stayed pregnant was because I was adamant about having a little brother."

John looked up. Mycroft's eyes were glassy. God, this wasn't right. Everything - Mycroft's words, his expression - was so unexpected, so unnatural.

... and apparently he had more to say.

"One of my biggest regrets was a row I had with Sherlock. He was twelve, I was home from University for awhile. The row started out as per usual, getting very cruel towards its climax. He poked fun at my weight and I retorted with something along the lines of: 'well, at least I didn't come into this world by mistake'. Even to this day I don't think I've seen him so upset. He knew he hadn't been planned, and I suppose he wondered if that's why Mummy and Father never gave him attention. I still don't understand it myself, but from that moment on, I felt terrible. And when Sherlock got involved with drugs at school, I had to step in and play mother, and have ever since. I worry about him all the time, and I fear that his behavior is somehow my fault."

"No," John said, taking a deep breath. "It's not your fault. It was a stupid comment, but you were much younger and weren't thinking. You've done so much for Sherlock, even if he doesn't realize it." He swallowed. "I'm glad you told me this."

"I'd prefer if you didn't mention it-"

"No, of course I won't." John stood up from the table. "I'd best be going, though. Thanks." He considered. "You and Greg ... it's good. It works."

"Thank you." Mycroft smiled sadly as John exited the cafe.

* * *

"Hello, Sherlock, dear."

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at the man in the doorway, the man who'd become her son of sorts. He looked handsome as ever in his black trousers and crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair was getting a bit overgrown, the only sign of outward disarray.

... that, and the slight frown on his face.

"John is upset with me," Sherlock muttered, entering the room and moving towards the sink, where the landlady had been washing dishes. "Nothing new."

"I'm sorry, dear," Mrs. Hudson set the dish she'd been cleaning down, drying her hands. "I'm sure things will work out, though. You two always figure out a solution."

Sherlock nodded, placing a hand on a lean hip. "My parents are getting a divorce," he said bluntly. "I don't know why I'm allowing it to bother me so much. I think it's affecting my relationship with him."

Mrs. Hudson didn't know what to say. She'd never thought herself the best at giving advice but she truly cared about Sherlock - and John, too - they were her boys, after all. And now one of her boys stood before her, looking drawn and alone and possibly a bit afraid, so she did the only thing she could think to do: she gave him a hug.

Sherlock returned the embrace, holding it for as long as possible. He needed this, almost as much as he needed John. He needed a mother - a mother who loved him. He thought of all Mrs. Hudson was to him and wondered how in the world he'd gotten so lucky.

"Help me with the dishes, love," the landlady suggested, "And then I'll make you some supper. I really think it would do you good."

Sherlock nodded, taking up the silverware and getting to work.

* * *

When John caught sight of Sherlock through the open door, helping Mrs. Hudson with the washing up, he couldn't help but pause to watch, a big grin breaking out on his face. He loved catching Sherlock in moments like these - glimpses into the life of someone who was truly becoming a good man. To say what he was witnessing was heartwarming would've been to state the obvious - and a vast understatement, to boot.

Sherlock looked up suddenly, eyes piercing. "John." He almost smiled, but remembered they were fighting and kept his expression guarded.

"Hey." Without entirely knowing what he was doing, John stepped closer, taking Sherlock's hands in his own. His wet, soapy, glorious, elegant hands. He gave them a reassuring squeeze.

"You're lucky I'm in love with you, you selfish git," John muttered. "Otherwise I might've stayed out another hour at least."

Sherlock let out an unabashed snort. "You were with Mycroft," he said, his voice not entirely accusatory.

"How'd-"

"I'd recognize his putrid cologne anywhere. He knows it's Lestrade's favorite."

"Hang on, you know-?"

"Of course I know." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John. It was, like most things, transparent."

John sighed. "And here I was, ready to make amends."

A quick glance over Sherlock's shoulder was enough to tell him that Mrs. Hudson had slipped out of the room, giving them some privacy. The ex-soldier smiled, stood on his toes, and kissed Sherlock warmly, taking a long moment to suck on that delicious lower lip. Sherlock's hands found John's backside, stroking fondly as he pulled his lover close.

"Not going to ask me - why I was with Mycroft?" John murmured in between kisses.

"Don't ... care ..." Sherlock hummed. "Not now."

John took hold of Sherlock's hips and straddled him against the sink, bending his love dangerously close to the warm water.

"J-John!" Sherlock gasped, squirming as John planted a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck, sucking at the delicate collarbone. Eventually Sherlock gave up the fight, allowing John to straddle as he wrapped long legs around the army doctor's waist. His burgeoning erection made his trousers even tighter than before; it was obvious John was hard, too.

He wasn't about to go asking for sex, though; not after what had happened earlier.

_Especially_ not bent over a sink in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

John kept at it, though, fueled by a rage he couldn't easily explain. His mind kept flashing back to the conversation in the cafe - about Sherlock being a mistake, unwanted from the start. Just the idea of it made him absolutely furious, determined to show the man before him that no, he was the exact opposite of unwanted - he was loved and desired; even with all his flaws, in John's eyes he was perfect. And if John hadn't been fully convinced of that earlier, one look at the giddy, libidinous man before him was all the reassuring he'd ever need.

Likewise, Sherlock found himself realizing that he hadn't been entirely fair. Using John in times of stress had been, well ... just that. Exploitation at its worst. To say he felt guilty would've been a vast understatement, especially when he truly looked at John at saw what a good, caring man he was. Cuddly, but strong and dependable, too. He deserved sex fueled by love, not by the mess of emotions Sherlock had been feeling of late.

Sherlock was glad they were making up. John's warm breath on his neck, the biting, the suckling ... it thrilled him more than even the best of cases.

... but despite all this, John looked ... _upset?_

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, taking hold of John's shoulders, his eyes questioning.

John shook his head; it was nothing. Nothing at all.

"Tell me."

"You are not a mistake," John said suddenly, his words adamant. "You are wanted, loved, appreciated ... by me, and by many others, too, okay? Don't think otherwise for one fucking second." This last sentence was spoken in a sort of quiet fury.

Sherlock immediately understood what had transpired between John and his brother that evening.

"I know I'm not," he responded, his voice soft. "I solve cases. I've helped loads of people."

"Even if you didn't, I'd still feel the same way." John sucked at Sherlock's lower lip again before he could make any sort of protest. As much as he adored every word Sherlock uttered (minus the things said out of stroppiness, of course), all he wanted to hear now were his lover's throaty gasps, his unrestrained moans ...

One of John's hands found the small of Sherlock's back, holding him upright (by Sherlock's own standards he was practically swooning), the other cupping a cheek, massaging an artfully-sculpted cheekbone. Sherlock's own hands rested on John's waist, helping to align his hips, dangerously close to his buttocks.

Just as John was hoping for more, Sherlock's hands found the arse in question and began the languid strokes. It was all John could do to keep up with the caressing; he found himself in his own little world and was having a hard time doing so many things at once. Those large hands on his bum were always - _always_ - more than enough, but here he was, demanding more, tasting Sherlock's tongue in his mouth and sliding his hands down the impeccable backside.

Sherlock pulled away for a moment, breathing heavily, looking as though he wanted to say something. John knew that whatever Sherlock desired in that moment, he'd do his absolute best to satisfy.

"Upstairs," Sherlock said.

John was very willing - this bit of foreplay (if you could have - until that moment - called it foreplay) had not been of a tumultuous nature; a good sign. Sherlock wanted sex; John most certainly wanted it now, too. They were both hot and aroused and there were currently far too many layers of clothing between the both of them.

Point being, John had absolutely no qualms about giving Sherlock what he wanted, because he wanted it as well.

He hadn't, however, been expecting to hear Sherlock utter the following words:

"Once we're upstairs, I want you to take me."


	10. Gratification

In no way was John prepared for those words.

In a sense, at one time he never would've thought the world's only consulting detective would be straddled between his legs, period - the fact that he looked flushed and determined an added bonus. It was too good to be true, made clear by the fact that Sherlock had never once asked to bottom ... not technically, that is.

And yet, said consulting detective was now doing the former while requesting the latter.

He didn't seem nervous. His eyes positively glowed, and his hands on John's arse were definitely making it hard to refuse. He looked capable, powerful, and John decided that if Sherlock himself were asking, he had to know for certain that this was what he wanted.

All these thoughts flashed through John's mind in about half a second, and yet, Sherlock was staring him down, waiting for an answer.

"Let's go," John said, knowing his own eyes were filled with just as much fire.

* * *

A fact Sherlock had failed to mention was that he had never been taken in his life.

Nope, not even with the bloke at Uni. Yes, they'd 'tried a number of different positions', but Sherlock had been adamant about never trying _that_. At the time he hadn't wanted to jump into anal sex head-first, so to speak ... unless he were topping. He'd been afraid of the lack of control, the reaction to sensations fueled not by thought but by emotion. Having someone else know that they had so much impact on how he could feel, how he could be_made_ to feel.

He could never allow himself to be that vulnerable, not ever.

... but he trusted John. Hell, he'd spent many months worrying himself sick about this, wondering when the time would be right. At first he'd wanted to do it soon, lest John grow bored of him and go back to one of his girlfriends, but over time he'd learned that John was as loyal as they came. John would wait.

Sherlock wanted this now, and John was more than willing.

* * *

John wondered if they had perhaps materialized into the bedroom; they seemed to be there in no time at all. He wondered the same about their clothing; he vaguely recalled it being pulled off - but unceremoniously, as though there were no time to be wasted.

Now, at last, Sherlock stood before him, all limbs and angles but incredibly soft to the touch, as John was constantly rediscovering. And then, of course, there was that glorious cock, full and erect, covered in a dark thatch of pubic hair. John remembered hearing a sort of guttural noise, though he couldn't recall if it had come from Sherlock or himself.

John took Sherlock by the waist and led him over to the bed, crawling in and tossing the duvet aside. He snatched up the condoms and lube from the drawer in the bedside table, slicking himself up and proceeding to do the same for Sherlock, watching those lean hips sway rhythmically to the motion.

_Jesus, Sherlock,_ he thought, _we haven't even started yet._

He forced himself to focus; he was all-too-aware of how hard he was. It got especially bad as Sherlock turned around, his backside and pert little arse right in John's face.

John held Sherlock's hips steady, giving him some forewarning, and proceeded to test the anal cavity, doing his best to be gentle but fully aware of Sherlock's whimpers.

"Shh," John murmured, trying his best to be comforting. God, Sherlock was tight. But the last time he'd done this had been at University, right? John hadn't fooled himself into thinking he was Sherlock's first for a long time, but now, in this moment, he almost could ... and enjoyed it thoroughly.

"I'm here," John whispered, so quietly that he doubted Sherlock heard him. The whimpering stopped, though - a sign that perhaps he had - replaced by a sort of garbled speech.

"What was that?" John asked.

"I said, 'any day now, John'," Sherlock murmured inarticulately. The words were authoritative but the delivery wasn't, proof that he wasn't thinking as clearly as usual. John smiled to himself, glad that Sherlock couldn't see his amusement - calling him out on the lisp would only embarrass him, and he wanted his love to be completely comfortable, especially now. He aligned Sherlock's hips (as well as he could in spite of the wriggling) and entered, beginning with a series of slow thrusts.

Right from the beginning Sherlock felt tears spring to his eyes. For every wave of pleasure came about three waves of pain - of the type he'd never experienced before. He knew by anyone else's standards this was more than gentle, but he was also about as tight as any man in his early thirties could ever be. He couldn't believe his cocksure attitude of before; by all means he'd sounded as if he had at least _some_ experience with this ...

Sherlock found himself getting more comfortable, however, and the initial sensations faded. Everything - his hips, his thighs, his groin - hell, his _head_ - still hurt like no tomorrow, but these sensations were easier to ignore as the waves of pleasure started to prevail. Each thrust became euphoric; Sherlock couldn't focus and he damn well didn't want to. Each sensation felt animate in itself - John's cool hands, holding his perspiring form steady, the wet curls, plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, his hips, bucking and rocking and wriggling -

- and then, of course, John inside him, each wave of pain sharpening his senses and each wave of pleasure clouding them again.

His cock was harder than ever; pent up and begging for release, adding to his pain. Every one of his limbs began to shake; he sucked at his lower lip, biting back a scream.

John, apparently, was getting there, too. "F-fuck, I'm going to-"

"_John_," Sherlock gasped, thinking clearly enough to remember that if John came, he was sure to follow.

"Say-say that again," John moaned, his chin quivering.

"J-John," Sherlock gasped again, ready to collapse. Again, louder this time: "_John!_"

"Oh, _fuck!_" John cried, knowing he sounded comical but hardly caring. This always happened; Sherlock could turn John into a complete mess just by saying his name like that, in that throaty baritone. John felt the orgasm rip through him, all-too aware of the erratic throbbing in his head, outdone only by the hammering of his heart.

Of the next few seconds he was only vaguely aware: Sherlock's long hands clutching at the bedsheets, a head of dark curls, thrown back, just as those slender hips thrust forward - lean shoulders rolling, looking surprisingly robust in the dim light ...

_Jesus, turn away,_ John thought to himself. _Don't watch him now; it's far too much -_

In a way, it really was - he'd seen Sherlock come before, but not with such utter abandon. He'd finally pulled out, and now he had a clear view of Sherlock's features - the mop of damp hair, the heaving chest, the closed eyes and the slack jaw ... John felt indecent just seeing him in such a state. Seeing him so unrepressed, and, in turn, so at ease. It felt as though he were watching something private.

For a moment he was motionless, save for his labored inhalations, watching as Sherlock's breathing slowed. It grew heavy, almost as though he were falling asleep.

"Hey." John moved in close and touched the back of his hand to Sherlock's flushed cheek. "That was-I mean-"

"Perfect," Sherlock said firmly, taking hold of John's hand, kissing the top of each fingertip. On the last finger he began a slow and gentle suck.

"Sneaky bastard," John muttered, doing his best to ignore the tingling in his spine. "I didn't think someone as forward as you would resort to subliminal messages."

The suckling stopped.

"Oh, John," Sherlock purred. "I was doing nothing of the kind. Besides," he added, sitting up and leaning against the headboard, "I don't think I could handle much more. I'll already be sore tomorrow, and you'll have to bring everything I need to my bedside."

John swatted him on the head. "You'd be bored stiff in ten minutes."

"Sooner, I imagine."

"Sherlock?" John asked suddenly, grazing his fingers against Sherlock's chest, circling each nipple, "Until tonight ... had you ever bottomed like that before?"

"Mm, no," Sherlock murmured. "I've tried just about everything else, but ... not that."

"Why'd you wait?" John couldn't hide his burgeoning curiosity.

"Too many emotions," Sherlock said. "No control. I was, erm ... fearful."

John didn't have to ask for the specifics; he could well understand why Sherlock would feel that way. He liked the idea that he had, in a sense, actually been Sherlock's first - it provided a sort of closure he hadn't known he'd wanted.

"You weren't fearful tonight," John said, grinning.

"But I was," Sherlock said, his voice quieter than ever. "At first. I still am ... a bit. But I like watching how I make you feel, John, and ... I hope seeing me in such a state was similarly gratifying."

"Of course it was." John slipped into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder and nuzzled in close, not caring that their current scents left something to be desired. "I'd venture to say it was even more so."

* * *

Sherlock, predictably, woke up the next morning completely stiff, finding it nearly impossible to get dressed, let alone walk about the flat without looking as though he had something up his arse. There would be no cases today, on principle ... and maybe not for a long while.

He forgot his embarrassment, however, the moment he caught sight of John. Warm, sunny John, looking impossibly adorable in his striped jumper, hair tousled and eyes bright, sipping coffee while reading the paper. He looked wonderfully boyish and surprisingly unruffled, a striking contrast to how Sherlock felt.

"Good morning," John said. "Hope you didn't mind; I smelled like absolute shit and had to take a shower. Otherwise I would've stayed-"

"It's fine," Sherlock murmured, silencing him with a kiss. "Just don't say anything about my limp and I'll forgive you."

"Limp? What limp?" John said, handing over a second cup of coffee with a lopsided grin. Sherlock rolled his eyes but John hardly noticed; the limp, among other things, had been completely unobserved, overshadowed by something else entirely.

'Something else' being, Sherlock looked so damn _happy_.

It wasn't that he was laughing or smiling or cavorting about the flat ... or anything, really. No, it was much more subtle than that - his relaxed posture, the way his fingers drummed against his coffee cup, the lack of intensity in his stare, replaced by sheer warmth.

The way he spoke, however, was the dead giveaway. His voice was as quick and deep as ever, but there was a sort of lilt there, a soft, excited intonation to every syllable, sometimes languid, sometimes energized. John wasn't even entirely sure what Sherlock was going on about; whatever it was, it must've been good. No, perhaps more than that ... perhaps something had, in fact, changed - as of last night.

... but John, modest as always, could hardly believe he'd been the source of such pleasure. He took a sip of coffee, taking no credit and thinking only of how brilliant and beautiful Sherlock was, especially the way he looked and sounded now.

* * *

The summer was, more or less, one of domestic bliss. There were always cases - more than ever, it seemed - and whenever one was solved, Sherlock was more than willing to make love. What had once been dubbed a 'post-case snogging session' had evolved into something of a much more erotic variety.

As an added bonus, Mycroft had stopped phoning, at least when it came to anything familial. Sure, there was the occasional remark ("the divorce has gone through, finally"; "everything regarding the family business has been sorted out"), but not to the point of being bothersome. By the look of things, Sherlock could close the door on that part of his life for good; he could continue on with John as before - this time without any distractions.

But as the saying goes, nothing gold can stay ... as was proven one morning near the end of October. John was sitting at the table, updating his blog, his thoughts elsewhere. He and Sherlock had been together for almost a year now - November 18th marked their first anniversary. He wanted to plan something special, and coming up with something exciting and unpredictable for Sherlock would be a challenge. He'd decided he needed several weeks in advance to think up something good.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair - eyes closed, fingers steepled, by all means just as mentally preoccupied. John caught himself sneaking peeks at him from across the room, wondering which case he was puzzling out this time.

"John," Sherlock said, opening his eyes and catching John staring.

The ex-soldier blushed. "Hey."

"I have to go to Yorkshire tomorrow morning," Sherlock said. "According to Mycroft."

"Er, _why?_" Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type for aimless holidays - and besides, none of their cases had brought them in that direction in ages.

"Apparently my parents want to give me some of their shares, or whatever. I don't pretend to understand it, or to be remotely interested, for that matter. They gave Mycroft almost everything because he's firstborn; I suppose it's a bit of a pity play on their part. I told him I didn't want anything, but apparently I've got to sign some papers proving I don't. Like I said, it doesn't make sense; I thought they sorted out their business months ago once they got the divorce. I imagine they're just being annoying as ever, want attention from their sons or something. Completely illogical, but I must go. Maybe once I've signed the bloody documents they'll be out of my life for good ... for real, this time." Sherlock gave an exasperated shrug, meeting John's concerned gaze.

"So, they're both wanting to meet up with you - where, exactly?"

"Their estate," Sherlock said. "Or rather, my mother's - most of the money they had came from her side - the home included. It's not important. What I'm trying to say is, they'll both be under the same roof and there's sure to be some sort of spat while I'm stopping in."

John was more concerned than ever. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That's what I was considering ... but no, John, I think it's best if I do this alone. I just wanted you to know in case you had something planned for tomorrow."

"Hm ... I see." John frowned. "Well, if things get rough, phone me, okay? Who knows, you might get lucky - after this, maybe you'll finally get some space from them."

"Maybe." Sherlock considered that. It was funny, in a way - years ago he'd wanted nothing but attention from his mother and father, and now ... well, he was certainly getting attention, but not of the right variety. It frustrated him to no end - not getting what he wanted, and not knowing what he wanted as well.

"I think it'll be fine," John said, getting up from behind the laptop and crossing the room, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Just keep that head of yours clear, and if worst comes to worst, I'm a call away."

Sherlock's nodded, warming to John's comforting touch, his thoughts growing less tumultuous. "Thank you, John."

Sherlock wasn't just thanking him for this one occasion, but for all the times John had been there when he'd been in need. John seemed to comprehend that, and Sherlock's heart lifted at such a thought.

If he were the poetic type, he'd say John was his anchor, helping him to hold strong, even during times such as these.

... and yet, he sat there, shoulders stiff, wary despite all things of what was to come.


	11. Atonement, More or Less

An ordinary person might have found their senses clouded that morning, in the face of such impending doom.

Sherlock, however - being Sherlock - found his own senses sharper than ever ... something he might have appreciated, if not for his intense agitation.

He swore he was aware of each droplet of water during his morning shower, every minuscule crease in his newly-pressed suit, and even the taste of worry in John's goodbye kiss. The doctor, despite his strong front, was fearful, too.

"Text me when you're done and tell me if I need to file a restraining order," John said, attempting a joke.

Sherlock smiled weakly, pulling on his coat and scarf. "Hopefully we won't have to resort to that."

He exited the flat before there was any chance of a hug. If such a thing had happened, it was very likely Sherlock would change his mind about Yorkshire altogether in favor of the familiar flat.

He told himself again and again that this was just like anything else he ever did; he wasn't a coward - he was capable of emotional detachment if necessary. This was nothing but a business transaction.

So why, upon hailing a cab, did his breathing start to become erratic?

* * *

If he'd thought he'd been bad in the cab, the train was an entirely different story. He'd gotten one straight to Harrogate, thank God, so he was free to shut himself away in a compartment and retreat to his Mind Palace. Anything - oh, God, _anything_ - to keep his sanity.

He was so sick of this. This confusing relationship with his family - not knowing what they wanted from him and vice-versa. Wondering what he'd ever done wrong, so as to avoid winning their favor for so long. It was all so frustrating and everyone knew Sherlock Holmes did not deal well with frustration.

A woman and three children entered the compartment just as Sherlock was closing off his mind. The youngest child's piercing shrieks were so loud as to bring Sherlock back to reality. He shot the woman a dirty look and exited, making his way down the hall, hoping for a better seating option.

But no, every compartment was occupied by at least one person. He needed to be alone. He needed to _think_.

He wondered if perhaps he was having a panic attack. He didn't know that he'd ever had one before, but he'd had his moments of anxiety as a child and even occasionally as an adult. Nothing as bad as this, but the current symptoms were recognizable.

He wanted so badly to call John. To hear that soft, comforting voice on the end of the line, constantly reassuring, even when the future wasn't certain.

Sherlock decided against it. He was tired of bothering John with trivial things, and besides, John would want to join him, and Sherlock couldn't have that. He needed to do this by himself.

In the end, he locked himself in the toilet and stayed there until someone started knocking. By then Sherlock felt noticeably calmer, though his brain was still functioning in overdrive (but wasn't it always doing that?).

Sherlock took a seat next to an old woman who smelled of hair product, but couldn't really find reason to complain. It was a step up from the screaming children, after all.

* * *

Harrogate was looking gloomy, but that was to be expected during the end of October. Still, though, Sherlock felt the weather suited his mood. He would've been more annoyed if the sun was out, a direct contrast to how he felt inside.

He glanced at his phone: five texts from John, all with some sort of silly endearment. Sherlock smiled inwardly, tucking his phone in his pocket, finding himself (God forbid!) drawing strength from the encouraging words.

When he finally arrived at his parents' (or rather, his mother's) country manor, he was shown into a sitting-room by a servant he did not recognize. Hell, everything looked new, hardly limited to the staff - the whole place appeared to have been renovated. How long had it been since he'd last visited, anyway?

He noticed a stain of ink on the wall, something that had apparently escaped notice - or had it? Sherlock himself had left it there when he was six years old, in the midst of some experiment, and had never thought of it since. Why, despite all the renovations, hadn't it been done away with?

Sherlock stared quizzically at the ink until another servant appeared, showing him up the stairs to what had once been his father's office. Sherlock's mother was sitting at the writing-desk, scrawling something furiously on a piece of paper, while his father stood by the window, back turned.

"Hello, dear," Mummy said absentmindedly, holding out a stack of documents. "Just sign on the places I've circled; we'll try not to detain you for too long."

"Or so you say," Sherlock's father said, turning away from the window. He looked as broad and imposing as ever, leaving Sherlock the slightest bit unnerved. Mummy was bad, but Father could be even worse. "You always make a terrible habit of detaining people, Violet." Oddly enough, his words did not sound insulting - more teasing, if anything. Sherlock sucked at his cheek, surprised at the unfamiliarity of, well ... everything, so far.

Mummy let out a (_good-natured?_ _Surely not ..._) huff and procured a pen. Sherlock read through the documents and signed, too anxious to even feel bored. His mother and father should not be in such close proximity. The sooner these damned shares got sorted out, the better.

His last signature in place, Sherlock stood, ready to go - but not quite.

"Why is that ink stain still on the wall downstairs?" he blurted, hardly believing himself for asking.

He hadn't expected his mother to know what he was talking about, but she did.

"Oh, sentiment, I suppose," Mummy said with a small laugh.

"I-"

"You're off in London now, solving cases, being clever - and sometimes I forget that you were just a boy, doing things like that. Messing up the walls left and right. I look back on those times fondly - and I'm sure your father does, too."

"We're very proud of you, Sherlock," Father added.

"You were a good little boy and you've become an even better man," Mummy said.

Sherlock's head was swimming. What the hell was going on? These overly-affectionate people were not his parents. But why were they acting in such a ...

Was this Mycroft's doing?

Even worse (or perhaps better) (no, definitely worse), was it _John's?_

That was the only answer. But he'd trusted John! And now - oh, God, he didn't understand. He felt completely out of his element.

The words were one thing, but the actions were another. Just when Sherlock felt he couldn't be more surprised, he felt his father's hand on his shoulder, his mother's embrace.

In that moment, Sherlock had a sort of realization - if he'd been the romantic sort he might've called it an epiphany. His parents were, for the most part, self-centered, aloof, haughty, and distant. Perhaps they hadn't even realized Sherlock's feelings of isolation and inadequacy, due not to these traits but to sheer ignorance instead.

He saw the stress lines around his mother's mouth, the bags under his father's eyes, and knew that their lives (especially as of late) hadn't been the easiest, either. They'd had all sorts of marriage troubles and Sherlock certainly wasn't expecting them to get back together.

This, however, was something entirely new.

By all appearances, his parents did care about him - they just hadn't realized what they'd been doing, how they'd been treating their youngest son, until very recently.

They were (for whatever reason) trying their best to do better - to _be_ better - and at the end of the day, they weren't entirely removed, if the stain on the wall was any indication.

Sherlock found himself silently reveling in that hand on his shoulder, that warm hug ... but only for a moment. Years ago such things might've meant much more, but there was someone very special waiting for him back at Baker Street and he no longer felt a need to fill a void, by any means.

Despite all things, their affectionate gestures felt somehow inadequate.

All these thoughts flashed through his mind in mere seconds. He felt as though he was in some sort of television drama, one too cliched and melodramatic to actually be true. It was all just so bizarre.

"I'll miss my train," he said awkwardly, snatching up his coat and exiting the room as quickly as he could, before he could gauge their reactions.

* * *

Sherlock spent a great deal of the way home trying to puzzle out what had occurred. After a great deal of thought, he concluded thus:

His parents were human, with very human shortcomings, but they weren't entirely detached. Perhaps, like him, they were both just spectacularly ignorant sometimes. Despite all things, despite their previous behaviors, they were trying to be better, after Sherlock's feelings were brought to their attention (the person who had done this being unimportant, at least for now). It showed a great deal of heart on their part that, in the midst of their marriage troubles, they wanted to make up for how they'd behaved before.

Sherlock concluded (despite how dull and unoriginal the idea felt) that he forgave them - and oh, _God_, was it liberating. He didn't feel he owed them anything, didn't even care if he ever saw them again. All that mattered now was that he didn't feel burdened by them, by wondering why they'd acted so careless before, by secretly pining for their affections. Because now, in a sense, he felt he understood them and could stop feeling hurt by how poorly they'd behaved.

None of it mattered, because he fucking forgave every little thing they'd ever done (or rather, not done).

_If things happen like this in real life,_ Sherlock thought to himself, _perhaps all those shows on telly aren't as idiotic as I thought._

* * *

Sherlock found himself in the doorway of 221B again - but this time, with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John got up from his spot on the sofa. "Hey, how'd it go?"

Sherlock couldn't hide the grin any longer - it burst through, big and goofy. "Rather well, I think."

"That's great!"

"You spoke with them beforehand."

"'Course I did, you berk. It was while you were on the train."

"What did you tell them?"

"Nothing too revealing, but I think I did okay. Just that you felt they'd always been distant and that it'd been bothering you for awhile."

"You mean you just phoned and -?"

"Well, I didn't expect _you_ to do it."

Sherlock shrugged. He'd always been a straightforward person but had been the exact opposite in this aspect. For the umpteenth time he thought of how lucky he was to have John Watson looking out for him.

"Thank you; I appreciate it." He removed his coat and scarf, predicting he'd do away with the rest of his clothing soon enough. John seemed to catch on, too.

Things, of course, got intimate. Sherlock bottomed (as was becoming the usual) and found it to be more pleasurable than ever. The pain hardly existed anymore; the tears coursing down his cheeks were ones of relief as well as of letting go. After John's final hard thrust Sherlock came, falling back into bed and letting out a ragged sigh. Pulling John in close.

"I'd say 'I love you', but I fear I'm getting predictable," Sherlock murmured, wiping at his eyes.

John smiled contentedly. "Sometimes predictable is good."

Those words brought Sherlock back to earlier in the day, if only for a moment. The unpredictability of it all. How he'd discovered he hadn't actually needed any of what his parents had to offer him - none of the love and affection - because John was more than enough, and always would be. How the thing he'd thought he'd wanted for so long turned out to be something that, upon having, hadn't been in the least satisfying.

In spite of all this, though, it was nice to know he had his parents there. If anything bad ever happened, his mother and father cared enough about him. They were still an option.

Nothing bad would happen, though - nothing beyond the usual. He and John would make sure of that.

They pressed their hands together, fingers entwined. John found himself at peace for the first time in ages; Sherlock found true peace for, perhaps, the first time ever.

* * *

_**A/N: Up next is the epilogue ...**_


	12. Epilogue: An Island No More

On the morning of November 18th, John woke in a panic.

_Our anniversary!_ he thought frantically, running hand after hand through his hair. _I don't have enough time to think of anything, not now ..._

John was absolutely furious with himself. He'd been thinking about this very day for the past three weeks, and even off and on again before that. He'd wanted enough time to plan something absolutely perfect.

'Perfect' meaning, something entirely uncommon. Sherlock could be a tough customer and John didn't want him to be bored.

Oh, John had done his research, all right. He'd looked up the finest restaurants and the ritziest hotels and he'd even begged Molly to find Sherlock a new corpse - something, _anything_ for the detective to enjoy. It had been a rough year but things had certainly been looking up lately, and John wanted their anniversary to be proof of that. That the future would be better, even more exciting, etc.

And now, here he was, on the date of the anniversary in question, and John hadn't thought of a bloody thing.

The other side of the bed was empty. John checked his mobile; sure enough, there was a text from Sherlock: _Lestrade phoned about Shoreditch stabbings. Should have all sorted out by end of day. SH_

John sucked in a breath. By all appearances Sherlock hadn't even remembered about today - but why should he? He'd say something entirely logical, something about the day itself not having any meaning, not when the relationship meant so much more. He'd grown to love, but he was still adamantly unsentimental ... for the most part, anyway.

Besides that, if John had planned something extravagant and Sherlock had not known why, John would have to explain. That could be very embarrassing for the detective, and a guilt-ridden Sherlock Holmes was the last thing John wanted.

He put his face in his hands, shoulders slumped, wondering when he had become so uncreative.

* * *

John spent the day cabbing about London, hoping that if he couldn't think of something special to do, he could at least buy some sort of gift. Sherlock would surely scoff at flowers or chocolates. He didn't need another chemistry set and he certainly didn't need another £250 D&G shirt, as lovely as they looked on him. As much as John wanted to spoil his love, he had the rent to think about, and he knew Sherlock despised repetition. Buying him something he already owned would irritate him to no end.

He scrolled through his contacts, looking for someone who could help. Hell, he was actually considering phoning Harry when his text alert sounded.

_Savoy Grill, 7:30 p.m. At least attempt to dress yourself. SH_

John gaped at the phone screen. Wait ... but why ...?

Probably something for the case. Wasn't it always for a case?

John rolled his eyes and laughed, catching a cab back to Baker Street. Who was Sherlock to insist he 'attempt to dress himself', anyway? He was sure one to talk!

* * *

Upon entering the Savoy Grill, John had only just taken in his surroundings before being ushered to a corner table where, unsurprisingly, Sherlock stood to greet him. His hair was freshly combed, his expression uncharacteristically shy - but only for a moment, giving way to a small smirk at John's shocked expression.

"You-you-" John gasped.

"Sit down, John," Sherlock said softly, taking a seat himself and pretending to glance at his menu.

"But Sherlock, what are we-?"

"Dinner is only a pretense," Sherlock admitted. "I did one of the owners a little favor some time ago and he promised he'd get me in whenever I asked." He looked embarrassed. "I probably shouldn't have mentioned that part; I should like for you to think I worked hard to get reservations."

John could hardly believe it. "We can't afford this, Sherlock," he said, a bit stupidly.

"Don't worry about it, John; it's my treat. For our anniversary."

"Huh? Oh ... _ah_." John smiled. "I didn't know if you'd remembered ..."

"Admittedly I didn't remember; not until several weeks ago, when I saw you looking bothered. Deducing your stressor wasn't hard."

"Of course it wasn't." John shook his head with a laugh and opened his own menu. "Whad'you mean by 'only a pretense', anyway?"

"_We-ell._" Sherlock's lip curled up. "I got us a room, too. For tonight."

John's mouth went dry. "Well, shit, Sherlock. Jesus."

"Good to hear you're still eloquent as ever."

John forced himself to look back at his menu and by no means focus too hard on the man before him.

The ravishing, maddeningly sexy, oh-so put-together man before him.

John felt himself get a bit hard, right under the table. His cheeks flushed.

"I'm not hungry," he blurted.

Sherlock looked as though he'd been expecting that. "Good. Me neither."

"Hmm." John hummed impatiently under his breath, reaching across the table and taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "Let's skip the pretense, then, okay? Up to the room. _Now_."

Sherlock let out a low chuckle, and John felt himself go even harder.

"Why, of _course_, John."

* * *

The location never really mattered, not when John was with Sherlock. They could be shagging in an alley for all he cared, as long as he could see Sherlock, hot and bothered, up against the wall. Or vice-versa; whatever worked.

Or so he'd always said, until he entered their room. Everything was so lavish, from the enormous bed to the silk curtains to the sensually dimmed lights. Suddenly John saw the appeal of setting the mood, so to speak.

Despite all these things, nothing - absolutely nothing - could outdo the lavishness of the man before him. Sherlock Holmes was the epitome of luxury, and now John had him here, in this far-too expensive suite. They were about to spend their anniversary together, in the best way John could imagine.

He had no memory of the stress he'd been feeling earlier; all he could think of was _this_.

Sherlock began to undress John, piece by piece, planting a soft kiss on each part of skin he uncovered: neck, wrists, each erect nipple. And then, of course, that secret tickle spot just below his navel.

John squirmed, harder than ever - physically hurting, save for those soft caresses.

"Bastard," he grumbled, his grin wry.

Sherlock made a sort of pleased noise, wrapping a slender arm around John's waist and leading him over to the bed, pressing him into those soft sheets. Slicking him up with lube, doing the same for himself. Somewhere along the way he'd tossed aside his own clothing; John supposed he'd been too focused on Sherlock's face to notice what was going on down below.

Sherlock's gaze was already unfocused, his pupils almost entirely dilated. This excited John to no end. There was something unreasonably thrilling about seeing Sherlock so disoriented, so unruffled. And John wanted much, much more of that.

Just as Sherlock was making to suckle at John's neck again, the doctor took him by surprise and tossed him back onto the bed, reversing their positions. Sherlock struggled petulantly as John forced his legs apart, frotting against him for all it was worth. His thrusts grew with each of Sherlock's excited whimpers, cupping a buttock to ensure there was no chance of separation. Working his hands even lower, sliding his fingers into the bum, close to Sherlock's balls but never quite there ...

"_God_, J-J-awn, staahp," Sherlock whined around John's mouth, as it sucked firmly against his upper lip.

_So he likes that, does he?_ John thought, smiling devilishly. _Well, then._

One hand continuing to cup between the buttocks, John curled his other hand around Sherlock's cock, stroking the shaft, milking it for as long as he could. Soaking up Sherlock's muffled moans like a sponge, moving on to the balls just as his love sounded fit to burst.

Sherlock muttered something in gibberish, letting out a strangled gasp as John began to stroke, straddling John with his legs, wondering if there was any hope of his slowing down - he could feel about himself to climax, and feared it wouldn't be pretty.

John couldn't handle much more, either. Seeing Sherlock like this did something to him, every damn time. And feeling his spine arch, his throaty moan, his hands clutch firmly at John's backside, well, that made him even harder than ever to resist.

John had thought he'd turned the tables, but apparently Sherlock was turning them again.

"S-Sherlock!" John gasped, feeling Sherlock's hips buck, causing their erections to touch again. "_Shuurlawk_," he slurred, clutching at anything he could reach. The only things being, apparently, Sherlock's bum and cock.

"Uuungh," Sherlock groaned, head thrown back, taking pleasure in John's unrestrained garbling.

And then the bastard had to go and do it again! Moan his name like that, emphasis on the "laaawk," something Sherlock found absolutely infuriating. He kicked furiously, fighting the building orgasm, but it burst through anyway, ripping against him with enough force to rock the headboard. No, scratch that: to slam the goddamn headboard against the wall to the point of, well, considerable damage.

Not that Sherlock was thinking of that, of course. John, who'd always been able to get off just fine by merely catching sight of his love, found himself coming, too. Sherlock was at his finest, after all, gleeful and obstinate and as always, supremely beautiful.

John didn't question why he was coming so damned early. He'd been fighting a battle of wills with Sherlock Holmes; did he really need any more of an excuse? In the end it hardly mattered; his thoughts were drowned out by their heavy breathing, their warm bodies, curled together, mouths pressed to necks, to hair, to anything and everything available.

Sherlock murmured something quietly against John's hair, his body shaking with silent laughter.

"Hmm?"

"I said ... why don't you ever let me do things for you?" Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbows and running a hand through John's military cut. "You've done everything for me this past year; I wanted to return the favor -"

"Jesus, Sherlock," John muttered, smiling sardonically, "You do realize you did everything for me, right from the start? I was beyond fucked up and you came in and, well ... I've been trying to return the favor for as long as I can remember."

"Why?" Sherlock chewed at his lower lip.

"Because I love you, of course."

Sherlock's smile was soft. "And I love you, too." He considered saying something self-deprecating ("congrats on sticking around," "you can't exactly back out now,"), but he thought better of it. John was such a good, loyal, _lovely_ man, and he didn't know of anyone who would have put up with all his idiosyncrasies, much less with his needs and insecurities as well. Hell, around the time Sherlock had brought up his need for touch - and his problems with his family - he knew anyone else would've left. Would've realized the size of the shoes that needed filling and said their goodbyes in a heartbeat.

Of course John hadn't done that, damn the man. Sherlock, for all his clever conclusions, couldn't for a moment comprehend why John stuck around, time and time again, even though he'd done his best to understand.

Sherlock finally decided to stop analyzing and just accept things as they were. He was so goddamned lucky, not only for having John there, but for the way John made him feel. The way John held him, ravished him, damn well _spoiled_ him. In the back of his head he knew he didn't deserve any of this, but such a thought was never on his mind with John close. John, on top of doing these things, always made him feel as though he was worthy of this - as though he were brilliant, beautiful, loved.

And now - finally - he was beginning to realize that perhaps (just maybe) he was.

"Happy Anniversary, John," he said, touching his lover's lips to his own.

* * *

"Should I even ask how Mummy and Father are doing, or is it a subject best dropped?"

Mycroft shrugged indifferently, but his eyes were bright. "They are doing just fine, Sherlock. I'd even venture to say they'd welcome you back with open arms ... to either of their homes."

"Well, that's certainly comforting," Sherlock said, shrugging as well. "I thought I might as well ask."

Mycroft nodded. "Don't worry yourself. They're grown adults; they'll be fine. In other news: isn't this a magnificent party?"

Sherlock glanced around the room, taking in every tasteless decoration, every dish being served, every Yarder in attendance. It was a good party by most people's standards, but decidedly not for the Holmes boys. Sherlock found his brother's bitterness amusing.

He was just about to laugh at the witticism when he realized that, no, Mycroft had not been speaking sarcastically. His brother had honestly meant what he'd said. Presumably it had something to do with a certain grey-haired host, fetching drinks across the room.

"Ah," Sherlock said, realizing. _Of course._

"I usually don't attend this sort of gathering," his brother continued, "But Gregory insisted. I am finding it to be quite enjoyable."

"Mm, good," Sherlock murmured absently, looking around the room for his own date. John had disappeared earlier to make a call, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

He didn't have to wait long. Soon enough, John reappeared, wearing that horrendous Christmas jumper, his smile boyish, his gaze affectionate. He led Sherlock gently away from his brother and they sat down on the sofa together.

"I don't know what we're doing here again, considering what happened last year," John admitted. He glanced across the room at Donovan and Anderson, who'd been shooting them wary looks all night. "Look at them. Acting as though they weren't the source of trouble last time."

Sherlock chuckled. "Forget them. Anyway," he said, turning to face John and smiling slyly, "I would direct your attention to the British Government and his precious Detective Inspector, but first I must interrogate you: why were you calling your sister?"

"How did you-? Oh, nevermind." John laughed. "It's just - Christmas is a bit of a trigger for her, so I thought I'd check in. She sounds good. Hell, she's sounded good for God knows how long. It's a huge relief."

"That's excellent."

"She was talking about Mum and Dad - I think they're skiing in the Alps, or something? God, I didn't know they had such energy, at their age."

"Oh, I'm hardly surprised," Sherlock admitted. "They are both rather ... spry."

"You're telling me." John shook his head fondly. "They want to visit sometime soon. They're upset they missed our anniversary, even if it was a month ago. I told them they shouldn't worry, but apparently they're going to get us a present. Brace yourself."

"It would be ... pleasing ... to see them again," Sherlock murmured. He paused. "From the sound of things my parents are doing well, too."

"That's great!"

"Yes, well, I'm just glad I've washed my hands of that mess." Sherlock found himself lost in thought again. "Everything's coming together rather nicely, isn't it? I didn't realize this sort of thing happened in real life."

"It does, but not often. I suppose we're just extraordinarily lucky."

"And about to be luckier still. Let's get out of here."

"Er -" John was about to protest, until he realized what Sherlock was saying. From the lovesick couples crowding the room to the horrendous karaoke music in the corner, to say the party was cringe-worthy would be putting it lightly. Besides, it wasn't as though anyone truly wanted them there, not after last year. John nodded, allowing Sherlock to tug him along, infinitely glad they were making their exit.

"Leaving already, you two?" Lestrade asked, paying more attention to Mycroft than to the impatient couple before him.

"Yes, well-" John was about to make some excuse, but Sherlock yanked him away before he could do anything of the kind.

As soon as they reached Baker Street, coats, gloves, and scarves were tossed aside without a care. Mrs. Hudson had lit the fire, bathing both Sherlock and John in a glowing light. Sherlock's clothing fell gently to the floor, and he watched as John's followed suit.

Somehow, though, he couldn't find the desire to take things much further. He always felt a great heat when he was with John, and he certainly did now, but this time ... it was more of a warmth than anything, spreading throughout his body, sending subtle shocks to his every limb.

He didn't want sex, not tonight. He wanted to try something different.

"Can I hold you?" he asked, his voice light but his words heavy with meaning.

John nodded. "Of course, Sherlock. Of course."

They curled together in John's chair, tucking an afghan about their legs. It was a tight fit, but neither of them cared. It was warm and cozy and they both felt relaxed, holding each other so close.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck, thinking of everything they'd been through together. Wondering when he'd become so bloody sentimental.

It hardly mattered, really, for he loved this more than anything. The feel of John's hands on his back, those breaths tickling his ear, that chest, pressed solidly against his own. The way he could hear - could feel - John's heartbeat, and in turn, his own.

Sherlock lived for this - for these touches, for John's unwavering presence. Cases were always fun, but damn it, they could _never_ compare to this. He knew, right then and there, that he was no longer alone ... and he hadn't been, not for a very long time.

Sherlock Holmes was no longer an island unto himself; one look - one touch - from John would confirm this in its entirety.

* * *

_**A/N: I made it a sort of goal to complete this story before I went off to college ... and here I am, less than twenty-four hours before I move in, scrambling to finish a Johnlock fic. Good thing I have my priorities straight, right? ;D**_

_**Personal life aside, thank you SO MUCH for reading/responding (90+ follows? Aw yeah!). By anyone else's standards this fic is hardly long, but I have a difficult time writing anything beyond one-shots (as I believe I've mentioned before), so this is actually progress for me. Thanks again for keeping me going!**_


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